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MISFITS    AND     REMNANTS 


Misfits  and  Remnants 


BY 


L.   D.   VENTURA 


AND 


S.    SHEVITCH 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR    AND     COMPANY 

1886 


Copyright,  1886^ 
By  Ticknor  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved* 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


^\}Xfi  ^ook 


IS   RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATED 
TO 

MRS.    GEORGE    HOWE, 
By  the  Authors. 


CONTENTS. 


-♦- 


Page 

Pepping i 

Only  a  Dog 51 

Beppo ()^ 

The  **  Herr  Baron  '' 85 

Our  Nihilist .  109 

A  Wrecked  Life .  129 

The  Stage  Fiend 149 

Graziella  the  Model 173 

Who  was  He? 191 

The  Elf  of  Hohenheim 215 


PEPPING. 


MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 


PEPPING. 

F  you  should  ever  go  to  New  York, 
and  on  some  fine  day  in  the  month 
of  May  should  saunter,  half  on  busi- 
ness, half  for  pleasure,  in  the  direction  of 
the  Post-Office,  take  my  advice, — do  not 
get  into  the  horse-car  which  goes  through 
Union  Square  to  Barclay  Street,  for  you 
will  surely  be  crushed  to  suffocation  in  the 
mass  of  stout  women  who  seem  to  frequent 
these  vehicles.  Neither  should  you  take 
an  omnibus, — that  relic  of  barbarism,  that 
unblushing  exhibitor  of  pretty  ankles;  but 
take  my  advice,  I  repeat,  light  a  good  cigar, 
and  quietly  pursue  your  way  on  foot,  fol- 


4  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

lowing  the  right-hand  sidewalk.  Not  only 
will  you  have  saved  five  cents,  but  you  will 
see  the  beautiful  things  spread  out  to 
tempt  you  in  the  shop-windows ;  you  will 
meet  many  pretty  women;  you  will  be 
much  amused  by  the  absurd  walking  ad- 
vertisements, and  edified  by  the  soles  of 
boots  at  the  windows  of  the  reading-rooms 
of  the  St.  Nicholas  and  the  New  York 
Hotel ;  and  besides  all  this  you  will  make 
the  acquaintance  of  Peppino. 

For  I  do  not  imagine  that  you  are  of 
those  who  waste  their  time  by  blacking 
their  own  boots,  but  that  you  much  prefer 
to  patronize  the  poor  Italian  who  for  five 
cents  will  put  so  wonderful  a  polish  upon 
your  lower  extremities.  For  see  now,  we 
must  all  live,  in  one  way  or  another ;  and 
my  poor  countrymen  have  a  right  to  exist, 
w^ere  it  only  by  selling  melons  or  by  black- 
ing boots. 

Do  you  know  Peppino?  No?  Then  I 
will  introduce  you  to  him.  Come  with  me 
to  the  corner  of  Prince  Street,  opposite  the 
Metropolitan  Hotel.     On  that  corner  stands 


PEPPINO,  5 

a  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  with  a 
brown  skin  made  yet  browner  by  the  sun, 
a  head  covered  with  thick,  curly  hair,  a 
pug-nose,  and  a  je  ne  sais  quoi  in  his  ap- 
pearance which  makes  him  look  very  droll 
as  he  stands  there,  with  his  blacking-box 
strapped  across  his  chest.  Peppino  is  not 
dirty.  He  wears  a  blue  jacket  with  a  sailor- 
collar,  trousers  rather  short,  indeed,  but 
clean,  and  on  his  feet  are  slippers  of  yellow 
leather. 

When  Peppino  cries  out  to  you  ''  Shine  ?  ** 
you  will  not  be  able  to  resist  the  fascina- 
tion, and,  like  so  many  others  who  are  pass- 
ing him,  will  stop  and  confide  your  boots 
to  him  while  he  makes  them  shine  like  a 
mirror. 

Peppino  is  an  aristocrat  in  his  own  way, 
and  has  a  ruling  idea  in  life.  Who  has  not? 
His  ambition  is  to  be  able  to  possess,  one 
of  these  days,  by  the  aid  of  your  boots, 
a  swell-front  in  his  native  town,  a  little 
America  in  the  heart  of  Southern  Italy. 
If  you  will  give  me  time,  I  will  relate  to 
you  how  I  came  to  know  Peppino,  and  will 


6  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

tell  you  things  that  you  do  not  hear  every 
day. 

This  came  to  pass  at  that  blessed  time 
when  I  first  came  to  America.  At  that 
epoch  I  was  not  precisely  in  intimate  rela- 
tion with  the  Manhattan  Bank ;  but  in  three 
weeks  of  New  York  life  I  had  experi- 
enced great  fluctuations  in  my  own  special 
'^  Bourse,"  and  in  a  relatively  short  space 
of  time  I  had  had  my  financial  Waterloo. 

Picture  to  yourself  that  I  had  come  from 
Italy  with  five  hundred  francs  in  my 
pocket  and  with  an  idea,  even  many  ideas, 
in  my  head :  I  believed  that  in  America 
money  ran  like  a  river  through  the  streets, 
and  therefore  it  was  not  necessary  to  bring 
any,  but  simply  to  come  and  gather  it  up. 
With  these  ideas  five  hundred  francs  were 
more  than  a  superfluity;  and  to  say  the 
truth,  I  got  rid  of  them  with  an  indifl'er- 
ence  worthy  of  a  nabob. 

For  instance,  I  had  been  led  to  believe 
one  could  not  be  modestly  lodged  in  New 
York  for  less  than  fifteen  dollars  a  week ; 
and  in  the  matter  of  food  there  was  noth- 


PEPPINO.  7 

ing  to  be  thought  of  but  the  bill  of  fare  at 
Delmonico's,  or  indeed  Martinelli's  menu. 
Naturally,  therefore,  I  threw  myself  into 
the  hospitable  arms  of  Ernest  Delmonico's 
maitre  d'hotel^  and  of  Paolo,  the  aide-de- 
camp of  Martinelli.  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised to  see  seated  at  these  tables  only 
gentlemen  in  full  dress  and  ladies  in  the 
most  fashionable  attire,  and  even  said  to 
myself:  ^'  I  wonder  where  the  working 
people  live  ? ''  But  I  answered  myself: 
"  You  stupid  !  they  probably  eat  at  an  hour 
when  you  do  not  happen  to  be  hungry/* 

As  I  went  on  my  way,  seeing  all  things 
as  through  a  prism,  and  not  knowing  a 
word  of  English,  having  determined  at  all 
costs  to  discover  America  for  myself,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  in  three  weeks  I  had 
descended  through  all  the  semitones  of 
the  financial  scale,  and  had  learned  three 
things :  First,  that  I  had  been  obliged  to 
go  from  a  lodging  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week 
to  one  at  ten,  and  then  to  one  at  five,  and 
at  last  was  not  able  to  pay  anything  at  all ; 
second,  that  I  had  fallen  from  the  height 


8  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

of  Delmonico's  to  the  depths  of  an  under- 
ground restaurant,  where  I  paid  twenty- 
five  cents  for  my  dinner,  beer  included; 
and  third,  that  it  had  become  almost  im- 
possible for  me  to  have  my  boots  blacked. 
The  result  was  that  at  the  end  of  three 
weeks  I  found  myself  possessed  of  the 
appetite  of  a  wolf,  that  I  had  unblacked 
boots,  and  a  quantity  of  manuscript  with 
which  I  intended  to  civilize  America. 

Every  morning  I  put  these  big  rolls  of 
paper  in  my  pockets, — a  political  article  on 
M.  Gambetta,  a  criticism  on  M.  Zola,  a  com- 
edy in  three  acts,  with  chansonnettes,  and 
the  inevitable  biography  of  poor  old  Gari- 
baldi. Armed  with  these,  I  went  to  the 
"  New  York  Herald  '*  office  and  asked  the 
janitor  when  Mr.  Bennett,  who  was  in  Eu- 
rope, would  be  hkely  to  return,  and  to  the 
**  Sun,*'  to  know  if  perhaps  Mr.  Dana  had 
finished  his  breakfast.  Then  I  sought  out 
the  editors  of  the  various  departments,  and 
emptied  the  treasures  of  my  pockets  upon 
their  tables.  It  was  true  the  brave  fellows 
could  not  understand  a  word  I  said ;    but 


PEPPINO,  9 

they  had  travelled  the  same  stormy  road 
themselves,  and  could  at  least  sympathize. 

The  following  day  I  would  return  to  find 
my  precious  things  in  the  box  devoted  to 
rejected  contributions,  and  attached  to 
them  this  sacred  legend:  *' This  manu- 
script returned,  with  thanks."  It  was  only 
after  several  of  these  excursions  that  I 
found  out  that  I  had  given  my  political 
articles  to  the  ''sport"  department,  and 
my  literary  criticisms  to  the  obituary 
notices. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  peregrina- 
tions that  I  first  saw  Peppino.  I  had  just 
issued  from  a  grocer's  shop,  where  I  had 
been  buying  ten  cents'  w^orth  of  crackers 
and  cheese,  of  which  my  breakfast  for  two 
mornings  had  been  constituted.  While  I 
awaited  the  sale  of  my  first  article,  to 
allow  me  to  dream  of  some  sort  of  dinner, 
as  I  was  passing  the  Metropolitan  Hotel 
a  boy  suddenly  started  from  the  wall, 
and  dropping  on  his  knees  and  calling 
in  a  high  voice,  '*  Shine  !  shine  !  "  without 
giving  me  time  for  resistance,  seized  one 


lO  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

foot,  and  in  a  moment  my  right  boot  was 
blacked  and  polished. 

**  My  boy  —  "I  expostulated. 

"  I  will  do  it  very  quickly,  signorino,'* 
said  the  lad. 

It  was  in  vain  to  protest;  my  second 
boot  was  already  in  process  of  cleaning, 
and  soon  shone  like  its  predecessor.  At 
last  my  foot  was  free ;  but,  alas  !  I  was  in 
bonds  mentally.  I  truly  believe  that  I 
turned  pale.  Do  you  guess  why?  No? 
Well,  the  truth  was  that  I  had  passed 
through  Rabelais'  mauvais  quart  d heure  iox 
the  want  of  five  cents.  My  entire  property 
consisted  in  a  bag  of  crackers  in  my  hand 
and  a  biography  of  Garibaldi  in  my  coat- 
pocket.  I  looked  at  the  boy;  he  stared 
at  me.  Several  of  his  customers  went  by, 
making  a  sign  to  him  to  black  their  boots ; 
but  he  did  not  stir. 

''  Five  cents  !  "  he  sighed  at  last. 

*' I  have  n't  a  single  one  !"  I  ejaculated 
with  some  difficulty. 

*^It  is  no  matter  at  all;  non  ja  minti ; 
the  Madonna  be  with  you  ! "  was  his  reply. 


PEPPINO.  I  I 

I  took  hold  of  his  arm  with  a  friendly- 
grasp. 

''  What  is  your  name?  "  I  said. 

*'  Peppino/'  touching  his  cap. 

*' Thank  you,  my  Peppino  ;  I  shall  come 
and  see  you  again  to-morrow." 

''  The  Madonna  be  with  you  !  "  he  said 
again,  and  I  walked  away  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  saying  to  myself:  *'  Now  I  must  make 
some  money  at  any  cost,  in  order  to  re- 
ward this  boy  for  his  honest  trust  in  me." 

Evidently  the  boy  brought  me  luck,  for 
on  reaching  my  room  I  read  in  the  paper 
that  the  Ministre  de  Justice  had  just  died 
in  Italy.  In  all  haste  I  wrote  an  obituary 
on  the  great  man,  and  took  it  to  the 
*' New  York  Herald."  It  was  accepted; 
and  better  than  that,  they  sent  me  imme- 
diately the  money  for  it,  which  amounted 
to  the  enormous  sum  of  seven  dollars. 
Picture  it !  Seven  dollars  !  It  was  indeed 
like  manna  in  the  desert  to  poor  starving 
me.  My  first  thought  was  to  seek  Peppino. 
He  received  me  with  the  srrfile  of  an  old 
acquaintance.  "  , 


12  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

"  I  knew  very  well  that  you  would  come 
back,"  he  said  ;  and  without  more  ado  took 
possession  again  of  my  boots,  and  polished 
them  as  if  I  had  been  the  best  customer 
in  the  world.  When  he  had  finished,  I 
slipped  fifty  cents  into  his  hand;  where- 
upon he  began  to  search  his  pockets  for 
the  change,  still  on  his  knees.  He  found 
forty  cents,  and  would  have  given  them 
to  me;  but  I  told  him  to  keep  them.  He 
looked  at  me  with  an  air  that  seemed  to 
say:  **  Don't  you  think  me  capable  of 
blacking  a  pair  of  boots  on  credit  with- 
out usury?'' 

'^  Keep  the  money,  my  boy,"  I  said ; 
**  and  if  you  would  like  it,  come  to  me 
every  morning  at  eight  o'clock  to  black 
my  boots." 

"  Indeed  I  will;  but  where  shall  I  go?*' 

*'No.  25,  Ludlow  Place." 

**  Va  bene  !  all  right ;   I  shall  be  there." 


FEPPINO.  13 


II. 


I  SAW  nothing  of  my  Peppino  the  next 
morning,  and  I  supposed  that  he  had  pre- 
ferred some  customer  whose  pay  would 
be  more  certain  than  mine.  I  was  a  Httle 
disappointed ;  and  scarcely  conscious  of 
the  direction  in  which  I  went,  strolled 
down  town,  and  came  upon  Peppino  at 
the  corner  of  Prince  Street,  where  he  was 
busily  brushing  the  boots  of  a  colored 
man.  He  made  me  a  hasty  sign  with  his 
brush  to  wait,  and  worked  away  busily  at 
the  larger  surface  which  required  to  be 
polished.  This  finished  at  last,  he  turned 
to  me  and  said  in  rather  an  injured  tone, 
pulling  the  strap  of  his  box  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  spoke,  — 

*^  I  went  to  your  house  this  morning,  as 
I  said  I  would ;  and  after  keeping  me  wait- 
ing a  long  quarter  of  an  hour  on  the  door- 
step, an  old  woman  came,  and  I  asked 
for  you.     Ah  !  signorino,  she  must  be  bad, 


14  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

that  old  woman,  for  she  was  very,  very 
cross  to  me,  and  if  I  had  not  run  away, 
she  would  have  called  the  police  to  put 
me  off  the  steps;   she  said  she  would." 

'^  What  do  you  mean?  She  really  sent 
you  away?  " 

^^ Proprio  cosi,  exactly  so,''  said  the  boy; 
and  then,  seeing  that  I  looked  sorry  and 
mortified,  added :  **  Never  mind ;  if  you 
want  me,  I  will  come  again,  I  am  not 
afraid." 

'^  I  believe  you,  Peppino ;  and  you  shall 
come  again,  and  the  old  woman  shall  re- 
ceive you  properly,  I  promise  you." 

I  wished  to  shake  hands  with  him;  he 
hesitated  a  little,  and  then  with  some  con- 
fusion began  to  rub  his  hand  on  his  trou- 
sers, trying  to  wipe  away  the  stains  that 
the  blacking  had  left  on  his  fingers. 

**  Well,"  I  said,  *'  are  you  not  going  to 
shake  hands  with  me?  " 

'^With  you,  a  signore?  "  said  he,  open- 
ing his  great  black  eyes;  and  then  he 
reached  out  his  hand  and  put  it  in  mine 
with  great  satisfaction. 


PEP  PINO.  1 5 

That  afternoon  when  I  returned  home  I 
went  to  the  sitting-room  of  my  landlady. 
This  worthy  woman,  thin  of  person  and 
cat-like  of  voice,  was  always  installed  in 
a  small,  dark  apartment,  furnished  with 
black  horsehair  chairs  and  sofa,  a  marble- 
topped  table,  and  a  large  Bible.  She  was 
very  pious  and  very  grim.  When  she  saw 
me  she  asked  in  sharp  tones,  — 

*'  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Fortuna?" 

**  Nothing,  madam,  except  that  I  wish 
you  would  not  prevent  one  of  my  country- 
men from  com.ing  to  see  me." 

*' What  do  you  mean  by  countrymen? 
The  only  person  that  has  been  here  to  see 
you  was  a  dirty  little  Italian  brigand.  I 
don't  want  such  people  in  my  house." 

**  Madam,"  I  replied,  '*  Peppino  is  a  com- 
patriot of  mine  and  an  honest  gentleman ; 
and  as  I  pay  you  for  my  lodging,  I  wish 
you  to  allow  my  friends  to  visit  me  in  it. 
This  boy  wishes  to  gain  an  honest  living; 
he  comes  to  black  my  boots." 

At  this  my  landlady  held  up  her  hands 
in  holy  horror. 


1 6  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

"  To  black  your  boots?  I  should  think 
that  it  would  be  much  better  for  you  to 
black  your  own  boots/' 

Now  I  had  passed  through  many  stages 
of  poverty ;  I  had  breakfasted  on  crackers, 
and  had  gone  without  any  dinner  to  speak 
of:  but  I  own  it  had  never  entered  my  head 
to  be  the  possessor  of  blacking-box  and 
brushes.  I  had  often  put  my  boots  out- 
side my  chamber-door,  thinking  that  per- 
haps the  servant-girl  might  take  pity  on 
them,  but  with  no  result ;  and  they  were 
indeed  very  rusty  when  I  first  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Peppino. 

Not  caring  to  discuss  this  point  with  her, 
however,  I  reiterated  that  I  wished  her  to 
have  Peppino  let  in  whenever  he  came; 
and  left  her,  she  shutting  her  door  with 
a  malicious  slam  as  I  took  my  way  up- 
stairs. 

From  this  time  Peppino  and  I  became 
the  best  of  friends.  His  entrance  into  my 
room  every  morning  was  like  a  ray  of 
warm  sunlight  from  my  dear  native  land, 
and  I  could  see  that  he  was  really  pleased 


FEFFINO.  17 

with  the  familiar  friendliness  with  which 
I  always  treated  him.  He  was  very  in- 
telligent, and  always  respectful  and  polite, 
never  coming  in  without  knocking  at  the 
door  and  saying, 

*'  Buon  giorno,  signore." 

While  he  was  at  work  he  watched  me 
as  I  wrote  at  my  table,  going  quietly  about 
the  room  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  for  fear  of 
disturbing  me.  When  my  credit  of  forty 
cents  was  exhausted,  and  I  wished  to  give 
him  some  money,  he  said  in  a  timid  voice, 

**  Non  fa  nie7ttey  if  you  have  no  change.'* 

The  boy  understood  my  situation,  and  if 
he  had  dared  to,  would  have  offered  to 
black  my  boots  for  nothing. 

"■  But  you  must  take  it,"  I  said,  a  little 
provoked. 

So  he  pocketed  the  pennies  without 
another  word. 

My  affairs  went  on  from  day  to  day  in 
about  the  same  way.  My  landlady  was 
always  sour  of  aspect,  bringing  my  bill, 
with  a  grim  and  suspicious  look  on  her 
face,  early  every  Saturday  morning.     Pep- 


2 


1 8  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

pino  said  nothing,  but  I  had  reason  to 
think  that  his  way  to  me  was  often  inter- 
rupted by  combats,  more  or  less  personal, 
with  the  aggressive  woman.  Once  he  said 
to  me :  '*  How  can  you  live,  signorino,  in 
the  house  of  that  bad-tempered  woman, 
you  a  signore?  " 

*^ '  Signore  ! ' "  I  repeated ;  *'  I  live  here  be- 
cause I  am  poor,  and  cannot  find  cheaper 
lodgings.'* 

*'  But  you,  a  signore  !  " 

Peppino  evidently  thought  that  this  word 
**  signore  "  meant  many  things. 

One  day,  when  I  was  in  a  talkative  mood, 
I  asked  him :  *^  How  much  money  do  you 
make  a  day,  my  boy?  " 

*'  That  depends,  signore ;  sometimes  I 
make  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,  sometimes 
only  seventy-five  cents.  In  the  summer  I 
have  more  work,  but  my  winter  customers 
pay  me  better ;  so  it  comes  to  about  the 
same  thing." 

*^  And  how  much  do  you  spend?  " 

^^  Chi  lo  sa?  Who  knows?  Sometimes 
ten  cents,  sometimes  twenty-five  cents.'* 


PEPPINO,  19 

'^  Why,  then  you  are  a  rich  man  !  What 
do  you  do  with  all  this  money?  " 

*^  We  send  it  home." 

**We?     Who  is  we?^^ 

''  Myself  and  my  two  brothers." 

^*  And  what  do  your  brothers  do  for  a 
living?'^ 

"  Oh  !  my  brother  Antonio  is  a  first-class 
boot-black.  He  stands  at  the  corner  of 
Union  Square  and  Broadway,  and  his 
price  is  fifteen  cents.  He  is  very  smart, 
my  brother ;  sometimes  he  makes  as  much 
as  three  dollars  and  ten  cents  a  day.  But 
he  plays  mora,  and  then  he  loses  his 
money." 

*'And  do  you  give  your  money  to 
him?" 

"  No,  not  to  him,  but  to  my  brother 
Filippo,  il  signore;  he  plays  on  the  vio- 
lin, he  does,  and  dresses  like  a  gentle- 
man. He  plays  the  violin  on  the  Coney 
Island  boats.  It  is  to  him  that  I  give  my 
money,  and  he  sends  it  home  to  Italy  by 
Signor  Cantoni,  who  has  the  bank  in  Wall 
Street." 


20  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

*' How  much  does  Filippo  make?'*  I 
went  on. 

'*  Oh  !  a  great  deal.  Sometimes  four  dol- 
lars a  day/' 

'*  And  where  do  you  live?  " 

*'We  live  all  three  together  in  a  little 
room  in  Crosby  Street,  and  we  cook  maca- 
roni every  Sunday."  He  added  breath- 
lessly: *^  Would  you  come  and  eat  maca- 
roni with  us  next  Sunday?'' 

*'  Oh  I  I  thank  you,  my  child,  but  I  think 
not." 

"  Ah,  signore,  you  must  say  yes  ;  I  have 
already  spoken  of  it  to  my  brothers,  and 
they  want  you  so  much  to  come." 

This  invitation  seemed  a  little  strange; 
but  I  would  not  have  ofifended  Peppino 
for  the  world,  and  I  accepted  it.  The 
following  Sunday  he  appeared,  quite  trans- 
figured. He  had  put  on  a  jacket  of  black 
cloth,  black  trousers,  and  a  pair  of  laced 
shoes,  much  too  large  for  his  feet,  but  re- 
splendently  new.  He  had  washed  his  face 
until  it  shone,  and  had  a  bright  red-and- 
white  handkerchief  tied  round   his  throat 


PEPPINO.  2 1 

for  a  cravat.  When  I  saw  him  in  this  at- 
tire, with  his  blacking-box  strapped  round 
his  shoulder,  the  whole  get-up  was  so  in- 
congruous that  I  could  not  help  smiling; 
at  which  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
I  hastened  to  assure  him  that  I  did  not 
mean  jt  in  ridicule,  but  was  he  going  to 
work  in  those  fine  clothes? 

**  Oh,  no  !  it  is  festa  grmide  to-day,"  he 
said ;  **  and  you  are  coming,  are  you  not?  " 

**  Yes,  sir ;  but  it  is  only  half-past  eight 
o'clock.'* 

*'  It  is  true ;  but  my  brother  has  to  go  on 
the  boat  to-day  to  make  music,  and  for 
that  we  must  have  our  macaroni  at  about 
nine  o'clock/' 

Upon  this  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  was 
soon  ready,  and  we  set  forth  together. 

The  house  where  Peppino  and  his  broth- 
ers lived  was  of  dismal  appearance,  in  the 
most  crowded  part  of  Crosby  Street,  where 
human  lives  and  rubbish  of  every  descrip- 
tion seem  to  be  thrown  together  pell-mell, 
in  a  heap.  As  we  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  house,  I  found  that  I  was  really  in  the 


22  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

midst  of  Southern  Italy.  Sitting  on  the 
ground  were  httle  children,  dirty  and  ill- 
clothed  ;  others  rolled  happily  among  the 
mud-puddles.  Olive- skinned  women  were 
combing  each  other's  long  black  hair; 
others,  of  the  true  Abruzzi  type,  wore 
bright  petticoats,  somewhat  ragged,  and 
scarlet  btistiniy  according  to  the  custom 
of  their  country.  They  had  gold  neck- 
laces with  pendant  crosses,  and  long 
earrings,  called  scioccagi^  which  almost 
touched  their  shoulders.  Old  women 
were  pulling  over  rags  in  baskets,  w^hile 
the  men  disposed  themselves  in  various 
attitudes,  enjoying  the  dolce  far  rziente^ 
smoking  bad  cigars  and  drinking  worse 
beer.  When  they  saw  us,  the  women  has- 
tily caught  up  their  children  from  the 
ground,  and  the  men  made  way  for  us, 
saying,  — 

**  Ecco  !  here  comes  the  signore." 
Peppino    was     quite     triumphant,    and 
laughed  until  his  white  teeth  sparkled  be- 
tween his  red  lips.     ^'  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  the 
signore,'*    he    cried    to    all    of    them,    and 


PEPPINO.  23 

tossed  his  cap  high  into  the  air  and  caught 
it  again,  as  he  showed  me  the  way  up- 
stairs. Making  our  way  with  some  diffi- 
culty through  many  hospitable  people  dis- 
persed here  and  there  on  the  stairways, 
who  asked  us  cordially  to  have  a  Mrink  of 
beer  as  w^e  went  by,  we  came  at  last  to  the 
top  of  the  house  and  stopped  before  a 
door  which  seemed  to  have  for  all  fastening 
a  loop  of  cord,  which  passed  through  a 
hole  made  in  the  wood,  and  was  caught 
inside.  This  door  opened,  and  two  young 
fellows  appeared,  upon  which  Peppino 
introduced  us  to  each  other  as  follows,  — 

**  It  is  the  signore." 

The  two  brothers  took  me  in  with  a 
comprehensive  glance,  from  head  to  foot, 
and  then  cried  both  together :  "'  Ben  ve- 
nuto  !  "  **  Welcome  !  "  and  gave  me  so  cor- 
dial an  American  shake  of  the  hand  that 
my  wrist  was  almost  dislocated. 

**  Keep  on  your  hat,''  said  the  musi- 
cian. 

*'  Thank  you,"  I  replied. 

**  And  don't  stand  on  ceremony,'*  added 


24  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

the  vicious  gambler  at  mora  while  he  got 
a  chair  and  put  it  for  me  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  as  if  to  put  me  in  pos- 
session of  the  place.  At  the  same  time 
Filippo  drew  up  a  table,  on  which  was 
served  iri  a  moment  the  traditional  dish  of 
macaroni,  which  was  evidently  all  ready 
and  waiting.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing I  confess  that  I  was  not  enormously 
inclined  to  do  much  honor  to  the  Neapoli- 
tan dainty;  but  it  was  pressed  upon  me 
with  such  cordiality  that  I  found  myself 
finishing  two  platefuls,  and  not  finding  it 
bad  at  all.  After  the  macaroni  came  a 
course  of  candy  and  peanuts. 

Peppino  was  radiant. 

The  room  was  poor,  certainly,  but  very 
neat.  There  were  two  beds,  one  for  the 
violinist,  and  the  other  occupied  evidently 
by  the  two  younger  brothers.  On  these 
beds  were  bright-colored  figured  cotton 
quilts.  Over  the  head  of  each  bed  was  a 
print  nailed  to  the  wall  with  big  black 
nails.  One  represented  the  Crucifixion, 
and  the  other  the  Madonna  del  Rosario. 


PEP  PINO.  2  5 

In  one  corner  was  a  large  wooden  chest, 
once  white,  but  now  yellowed  by  age  and 
weather,  wherein  they  kept  all  their  effects ; 
and  four  straw-seated  chairs  completed  the 
furniture  of  the  room.  There  was  a  wash- 
basin on  a  shelf;  here  also,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  were  two  bits  of  looking-glass. 
Red  cotton  curtains  hung  before  the  win- 
dows, and  on  one  window-seat  was  a  splen- 
did red  geranium  in  full  bloom. 

*' You  are  lodged  like  princes  here,"  said 
I  to  the  three  brothers. 

**  We  are  contented,"  said  the  violinist. 
**  But  this  is  nothing ;  we  shall  have  a 
house  down  there." 

*^Down  there?     Where?" 

"  At  Viggiano." 

"Are  you  from  Viggiano?"  I  asked. 

*'  Certainly,"  replied  Antonio ;  ''  we  are 
going  to  have  a  first-rate  house  on  Broad- 
way." 

I  was  puzzled.     Viggiano  —  Broadway  ! 
I  could  not  understand,  and  began  to  sus- 
pect  that    a   very  petit   vin   de  Sicile,  of 
which  my  hosts  had   drunk   at  breakfast, 


26  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

had    got     into    their    brains    or    mine.       I 
laughed,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do. 

*'  I  see,"  said  Filippo  calmly,  '^  that  you 
know  nothing  of  Viggiano." 

III. 

''Well,  then,''  said  FiHppo,  ''would 
you  like  to  have  me  tell  you  all  about 
Viggiano?  " 

"  Now,  why  should  the  signore  care  to 
know  about  Viggiano?"  interposed  Pep- 
pino,  who  feared  that  it  would  not  inter- 
est me,  and  wished  to  be  agreeable  to 
me  at  any  cost. 

To  reassure  him,  I  declared  that  nothing 
would  please  me  more  than  to  hear  what 
Filippo  had  to  say. 

"  You  must  know,  then,"  began  he, 
"that  our  Viggiano  is  in  Basilicata." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  He  knows,"  said  Peppino  in  a  stage 
whisper. 

**And  at  Viggiano  everybody  plays  on 
some  instrument  or  other, — harp  or  vio- 


FEPPINO.  27 

lin.  That  comes  by  nature  ;  no  one  teaches 
us  that.  One  fine  day  some  one  went 
away  from  among  us  to  seek  his  future  and 
see  the  world,  without  knowing  whither 
he  went ;  and  this  some  one,  always  wan- 
dering, found  himself  at  last  in  America. 
Now,  since  this  first  some  one  returned 
to  Viggiano  with  five  thousand  dollars  in 
his  pocket,  emigration  has  not  ceased  for 
a  moment.  From  father  to  son,  for  twenty- 
five  years,  it  has  been  always  the  same 
story.  One  leaves  one's  house  a  little 
boy,  a  harp  on  the  back  or  a  violin  under 
the  arm ;  and  always  playing  as  one  goes 
along  the  roadsides  of  Italy,  one  picks 
up  sous.  These  sous  have  grown  to  be 
many  by  the  time  one  reaches  Genoa. 
Then  it  is  easy  to  get  a  passage  on  board 
some  ship  going  to  America;  and  if  the 
passage-money  is  not  quite  complete  at 
starting,  one  makes  it  up  by  playing  on 
board,  and  so  gaining  a  little.  That  is 
the  way  we  get  here.  Every  month  we 
go  to  Signor  Cantoni's  and  take  the  money 
we  have  made,  —  some  of  us   by  playing, 


28  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

some  by  blacking  boots.  When  we  have 
sixty  dollars  it  is  sent  to  the  mayor  of  our 
village.  He  is  one  of  us;  he  has  been  in 
America,  and  now  he  is  a  rich  man.'' 

*'  How  much  money  does  a  man  require, 
to  be  called  a  rich  man?  "  I  asked. 

**  Oh !  with  four  thousand  dollars  you 
are  very  rich,''  answered  Filippo. 

^^  And  what  security  do  they  give  you 
for  the  money  you  send?" 

"  We  ask  none  but  a  receipt,  and  with 
that  we  are  perfectly  content.  With  the 
money  they  buy  for  us  a  lot  on  Broad- 
way. Broadway  is  the  name  of  our  great 
street,  half  a  mile  long !  It  was  called 
so  by  one  of  our  mayors,  who  had  been 
chief  boot-black  in  Broadway  in  New  York 
for  ten  years.  It  is  he  who  had  the  church 
built  at  his  own  expense.  So  you  see,"  con- 
tinued Filippo,  lighting  a  pipe  as  bespoke, 
*'  that  thirty  years  ago  Viggiano  was  only 
a  cluster  of  poor  little  cottages,  whereas 
now  every  one  who  comes  back  from  Amer- 
ica speaks  more  English  than  Italian  and 
has  a  house  with  a  swell-front !     Not  fine 


PEPPINO.  29 

houses  like  the  ones  on  Fifth  Avenue,  to 
be  sure,  but  yet  very  nice,  very  nice  — 
white  plastered,  with  swell-fronts  !  *' 

Great  emphasis  on  the  swell-front.  Pep- 
pino  clapped  his  hands  in  applause,  and 
Antonio  puffed  away  at  his  cigar  with  an 
expression  of  supreme  content,  watching 
me  the  while  to  see  the  impression  that 
all  this  made  upon  me.  Surely  I  had 
never  dreamed  that  there  was  this  curious 
little  reflection,  as  it  were,  of  American 
life  and  manners  among  the  mountains  of 
Basilicata. 

**  Are  you  never  afraid  of  losing  your 
money  ? ''  I  ventured  to  ask. 

*'  Never,''  said  Peppino.  *'  Here  we  save 
every  sou  and  live  with  the  greatest  econ- 
omy; but  there  we  have  plenty,  we  want 
nothing.  We  have  beautiful  festas,  and 
music  never  stops  at  all.  My  cousin 
Paolo  has  a  room  papered  with  New 
Year's  cards  that  were  picked  up  in  the 
streets  here  and  sent  to  him,  and  the 
aire  has  a  trunk  entirely  covered  with 
American  stamps !  " 


30  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

*^  In  about  a  year/'  added  Filippo,  *'  I 
shall  go  back  to  Viggiano  and  marry  my 
cousin  Filomena,  who  has  been  waiting  for 
me  these  eight  years.  I  have  paid  the 
schoolmaster  to  teach  her  to  read ;  I  have 
paid  him  a  dollar  a  year." 

''A  fine  salary  for  a  schoolmaster!''! 
observed. 

"Why  he  is  very  rich,"  said  Antonio. 
**  There  are  six  hundred  inhabitants  at  Vig- 
giano, and  he  makes  almost  four  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  That  is  a  very  good  in- 
come down  there." 

**  You  see,"  said  Filippo,  with  a  slightly 
superior  air,  ""  I  am  a  violin-player,  and 
well-dressed,  because,  going  into  the  world 
as  much  as  I  do,  that  is  necessary.  But 
Peppino  and  Antonio  only  black  boots,  and 
of  course  they  cannot  dress  like  gentlemen. 
No  one  would  give  them  any  work  if  they 
knew  they  had  money  already.  Here  we 
are  always  poor,  for  all  our  money  is  for 
the  paese ;  here  we  lay  up  comfort  for 
our  old  age.  If  you  only  knew  how  beau- 
tiful it  is  at  Viggiano,  signore  !     They  have 


PEP  PINO,  3 1 

flowers  there,  and  in  the  evening  every- 
body sits  and  sings  outside  of  his  swell- 
front/'  These  swell-fronts  were  evidently 
the  mania  of  the  place.  He  continued  :  ''I 
went  home  last  year,  because  my  old  father 
wanted  to  see  me,  and  besides  that  he 
wanted  me  to  promise  not  to  be  false  to 
Filomena.  Some  gossip  had  written  home 
a  story  that  I  was  in  love  with  an  organ- 
grinder.  She  lives  in  the  house  just  oppo- 
site here ;  but  that  is  nothing.  Things  have 
changed  a  little  at  home.  Nowadays  the 
children  go  directly  from  Viggiano  to  Amer- 
ica, without  stopping  to  play  by  the  road- 
sides in  Italy,  and  there  is  always  an  older 
brother  or  cousin  to  receive  them  when 
they  land  at  Castle  Garden." 

Antonio  now  proposed  a  game  of  mora, 
but  Peppino  reproved  him.  with  a  severe  as- 
pect; and  as  Filippo  was  obliged  to  go  to 
the  Coney  Island  boat,  w^e  accompanied 
him  to  the  foot  of  Twenty-second  Street. 
That  day  I  invited  Peppino  to  dine  with 
me,  and  after  a  little  urging  he  accepted 
my  invitation  with  great  delight.     We  eat 


32  MISFITS  AXD  REMNANTS. 

our  modest  repast  at  a  French  restaurant 
in  Houston  Street,  at  the  sign  of  ''  Le 
Grand  Charlemagne." 

*'  People  Uke  Antonio,"  said  Peppino, 
with  great  gravitj',  "  have  a  cafe  and  bar 
at  Viggiano,  where  they  can  play  mora ; 
but  Filippo  says  that  if  one  is  going  to 
drink,  it  is  better  to  drink  at  home  than  to 
patronize  the  keeper  of  that  cafe\  who  had 
a  bad  reputation  in  New  York  for  always 
gaining  at  mora.  For  myself,  I  should  n't 
think  of  going  there,  —  no,  not  once  in  six 
years."     This  with  an  air  of  reflection. 

"That's  right,  my  lad,"  I  said,  patting 
him  on  the  shoulder- 

I  really  almost  envied  Peppino,  and  went 
to  sleep  that  night,  my  head  full  of  swell- 
fronts  and  Broadways ;  and  I  blessed 
America,  that  makes  of  my  poor  country- 
men so  many  good  and  industrious  citizens. 

My  landlady's  manner  became  so  very 
unpleasant  that  I  decided  to  change  my 
lodging,  and  was  obliged  to  take  one  so  far 
from  Prince  Street,  where  Peppino  stood  at 
his  work,  that  although  the  boy  was  most 


PEPPINO.  33 

anxious  to  come  to  me  even-  morning,  I 
persuaded  him  that  he  ought  not  to  ^o  a 
thing  so  much  against  his  interest.  He  was 
quite  unhappy;  but  I  promised  him  that  I 
would  go  to  him  twice  a  week,  which  I  did. 
I  managed,  by  a  little  timid  advice,  to  in- 
duce him  to  take  more  care  of  his  personal 
appearance,  telling  him  that  politeness  and 
neatness  should  go  hand  in  hand.  He  was 
very  docile,  and  promised  to  take  a  bath 
every  now  and  then,  and  scrupulously 
brushed  his  hair  every  morning.  The 
poor  little  fellow  did  most  willingly  all 
that  I  asked  him. 

''  Say,  viaestro^'  he  said  one  day, ''  when 
I  go  back  to  Viggiano  I  shall  w^ish  so  much 
to  know  how  to  read.  How  much  shall  I 
pay  \'ou  to  give  me  lessons?" 

*'  Peppino,"  I  answered,  ''  I  will  teach  you 
to  read  with  much  pleasure ;  but  I  could  not 
think  of  taking  anv  monev.     No,  no." 

'*Xo?  But  this  is  business,  signore, — 
no  money,  no  lesson." 

''Ver}-  well;  we  will  see  about  it  this 
summer  some  time."  I  said. 


34  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

Just  about  that  time  I  was  called  away 
to  the  West  in  haste.  I  wanted  to  say 
good-by  to  Peppino,  and  went  to  Prince 
Street  for  the  purpose.  He  was  not  there. 
I  was  really  disappointed,  but  left  New 
York  without  seeing  him.  I  was  away 
longer  than  I  had  expected  to  be,  and  did 
not  find  myself  in  New  York  again  until 
three  months  had  passed.  Almost  the  day 
after  my  return  I  was  seized  with  an  attack 
of  low  fever  which  kept  me  in  the  house 
for  a  fortnight.  At  last  I  recovered,  and 
one  of  my  first  thoughts  was  to  see  my 
Peppino.  For  my  first  walk  I  sought  him 
and  found  him.  How  glad  he  was  to  see 
me !  He  left  a  customer  with  a  boot  half 
finished,  and  taking  me  by  the  arm,  led 
me  a  little  aside.  When  we  were  alone, 
he  told  me  how  sadly  the  time  had  gone 
while  he  had  not  seen  me,  and  that  now 
I  must  let  him  come  again  to  me  every 
morning.  So  I  gave  him  my  address  most 
willingly. 

During  the  fortnight  that  I  had  been  ill 
the  small  sum  of  money  that  I  had  made 


PEPPINO.  35 

in  the  West  had  flown  away  hke  summer 
flies,  so  that  I  was  once  more  almost  penni- 
less. But  I  had  learned  how  to  make  my 
way  more  easily  with  the  editors  of  the 
daily  papers,  and  I  managed  to  get  on 
somehow  or  other  by  my  pen  and  a  few 
lessons  in  Italian.  One  morning  when 
Peppino  came  to  my  room  I  was  still  in 
bed,  and  not  in  the  best  possible  humor; 
I  fear  I  did  not  answer  his  Bti07i  giorno 
in  the  pleasantest  way.  He  went  to  work 
at  my  boots ;  but  when  he  had  finished  he 
did  not  go,  but  after  reaching  the  door  once 
or  twice,  came  back  without  opening  it. 

''  Well,"  I  cried,  ''  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  It  is  that  you  seem  so  sad,  —  are  you. 
ill?" 

''  Yes/'  I  said,  ''  I  am  ill." 

''  That  is  not  true." 

**But  since  I  tell  you  so  —  "  in  spite  of 
myself  I  was  forced  to  smile  at  his  air  of 
assurance.  The  child  still  shook  his  head, 
and  I  could  not  help  a  sigh.  While  this 
little  comedy  was  going  on  we  heard  a 
knock  at  the  door. 


36  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

*'  Come  in,"  I  said. 

In  rushed  my  landlady  with  a  paper  in 
her  hand.  Addressing  herself  to  me,  she 
said  that  I  had  allowed  my  bill  to  go  over 
two  days»  that  I  used  too  much  gas,  that 
she  must  pay  the  gas-man,  and  that  I  must 
either  give  her  the  money  or  leave  the 
room. 

*'  But,  madam,  I  am  ill.'* 

"  I  will  give  you  twenty-four  hours,"  she 
answered,  and  she  went  away. 

This  was  the  secret  of  my  bad-humor, 
—  I  could  not  pay  my  lodging-bill. 

When  the  woman  had  gone,  Peppino 
came  timidly  to  my  bedside. 

"  Sentitey  signore,  listen  ! ''  said  he.  "  Will 
you  let  me  come  back  in  ten  minutes?  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  about  something." 

"  Yes,  Peppino,  I  shall  not  go  out  at  all." 

There  must  have  been  something  quite 
terrible  to  the  child  in  my  face  as  I  said 
these  words,  for  he  left  me  quite  overcome. 
At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  he  was  back 
again.  He  had  in  his  hand  a  red  handker- 
chief.   In  this  handkerchief  there  was  some- 


PEPPINO,  37 

thing  heavy  and  round  of  body,  Hke  a 
bottle  tied  at  the  neck.  He  approached 
the  bed  half  roguishly,  half  ashamed,  and 
in  a  tone  as  if  he  were  imploring  a  great 
favor,  cried,  — 

**  You  will  do  me  this  pleasure,  won't 
you?  You  can  pay  me  back,  you  know. 
Hold ! "  And  at  the  same  moment  he 
untied  the  handkerchief,  and  out  tumbled 
a  quantity  of  pieces  of  money  on  my 
bed,  —  quarters  of  dollars,  ten-cent  and 
five-cent  pieces,  and  pennies.  All  this 
made  a  large  heap  on  the  bed.  A  bank- 
teller  would  have  been  puzzled  to  guess 
how  much  money  was  there. 

"  And  you  wish,"  I  stammered,  ''  to 
lend !  " 

''  To  lend  you  this  to  pay  the  padrona. 
Come,  now,  do  take  it !  I  know  I  am  only 
a  poor  boy,  but  I  am  of  your  own  coun- 
try, and  I  cannot  see  you  insulted." 

I  was  not  strong,  and  the  tears  over- 
flowed my  eyes  and  rained  down  my 
cheeks.  The  poor  boy  was  shocked,  and 
I  compelled  myself  to  say,  — 


38  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

''  So  be  It;   I  will  take  it.     Count  it/' 

**  It  is  counted,"  he  answered;  **  there 
are  twenty-five  dollars  there.  Do  you 
really  want  it  counted?  '* 

This  with  an  air  which  meant  that  of 
course  he  would  count  it  if  I  insisted,  but 
it  would  take  a  long,  long  time  to  do  it, 
and  his  customers  were  waiting. 

''  Go,"  I  said,  **  and  come  back  to-mor- 
row, and  thank  you." 

"  Grazie  a  voiy'  replied  Peppino. 

The  little  episode  just  related  surprised 
and  touched  me  at  the  same  time.  That 
which  I  had  not  been  able  to  obtain  by 
my  most  strenuous  and  desperate  labor, 
that  which  men  who  professed  to  recog- 
nize merit  and  perseverance  had  not  done 
for  me,  was  offered  to  me  by  an  obscure 
blacker  of  boots,  by  a  child ;  and  it  made 
me  reflect  that  into  the  hands  of  children 
is  often  put  the  gracious  work  of  Provi- 
dence. Already  once  before  had  Peppino 
brought  me  luck,  at  my  first  meeting  with 
him,  and  my  debt  to  him  of  five  cents 
was  followed  by  the  sale  of  my  first  arti- 


PEPPINO,  39 

cle  in  a  New  York  paper.  And  now  again, 
as  you  will  see,  Peppino  was  to  have  a 
good  influence  upon  my  destiny. 

I  counted  his  money  with  great  mean- 
ness, it  must  be  confessed.  There  was  not 
one  cent  more  or  less  than  the  twenty-five 
dollars.  I  called  my  landlady,  and  as  a 
kind  of  punishment  for  her  harshness  I 
paid  her  the  five  dollars  for  one  week  in 
pennies.  As  a  slight  mitigation  the  price 
of  another  week  was  added  in  two-cent 
pieces,  and  to  cap  the  climax  I  gave  her 
a  quarter  for  the  servant;  and  the  ser- 
vant and  the  landlady  happening  to  be 
merged  in  the  same  individual,  she  went 
from  my  room  with  the  air  of  having  wit- 
nessed a  miracle. 

Fifteen  dollars  still  remained,  which  I 
proposed  to  return  to  Peppino  when  he 
should  come  the  next  morning.  He  ap- 
peared in  due  season,  with  an  aspect  more 
than  usually  beaming.  The  postman  had 
brought  a  letter  for  me,  and  he  had  taken 
it  from  him  and  bounded  upstairs  with  it, 
knowing  how  anxious  I  always  was  for  the 


40  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

mail.  As  he  opened  my  door,  he  held  it 
above  his  head,  that  I  might  see  it  on  the 
instant.  It  was  a  large  envelope.  My 
eyes  sparkled  when  I  saw  on  it  the  stamp 
of  the  ''World."  I  opened  it,  and  forth- 
with began  a  species  of  dance  of  joy 
around  the  room.  Peppino  looked  at  me 
astounded,  his  brush  arrested  in  mid  air 
on  its  way  to  my  boot. 

**  Good  news  !  "  I  cried. 

''Me  ne  consolo;  that  delights  me/*  he 
said. 

"Are  you  busy  to-day?  "  I  asked. 

"  Have  you  an  errand  for  me  to  do?  I 
am  here  to  serve  you." 

"Very  well;  I  shall  give  you  a  dollar 
for  the  commission."  Peppino  was  pet- 
rified. 

"  See,  now,"  I  said.  "  You  won*t  under- 
stand about  it,  but  that  is  no  matter.  You 
know  that  all  these  words  that  you  see  in 
writing  on  paper  are  called  an  article  for  a 
paper.  Very  well ;  a  paper  has  bought 
these  words.     Do  you  understand?'' 

"  Yes,  signore." 


PEPPINO.  41 

'^  I  shall  give  you  a  note  to  the  editor 
of  the  paper,  or  rather  his  check,  and  he 
will  give  you  the  money,  and  you  will 
bring  it  back  to  me  immediately.  No ; 
on  second  thought,  another  way  will  be 
better.  They  will  give  you  forty  dollars. 
Take  twenty-five,  which  belong  to  you, 
and  put  them  into  your  pocket.  The  fif- 
teen that  will  remain  you  will  put  in  an 
envelope  and  come  and  put  it  here  on 
this  table,  for  I  shall  not  be  here  prob- 
ably when  you  get  back.  You  under- 
stand?" 

*^  Yes,  certainly,  signore." 

I  wrote  a  word  to  the  clerk  at  the 
paying-desk  of  the  ''  World  "  office,  beg- 
ging him  to  remit  the  amount  of  the 
check  to  the  bearer,  who  was  a  person 
in  whom  I  had  perfect  confidence.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  how  proud  Peppino 
was  to  be  intrusted  with  this  important 
mission.  He  told  me  again  and  again 
how  quick  he  would  be,  and  how  partic- 
ular in  all  details,  and  I  bid  him  good- 
by  until    the  following    morning,  and   put 


42  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

into  his  hand  the  dollar,  to  be  earned  by 
the  business  he  was  to  do  for  me,  which 
dollar  was  one  of  the  twenty-five  he  had 
so  generously  lent  me. 

The  boy  went;  I  was  very  happy, — 
happy  in  my  little  success,  and  happy 
that  I  was  able  to  show  the  child  how 
entire  my  confidence  was  in  him:  in 
him  who  had  shown  so  much  in  me. 
And  I  thought  of  his  twenty-five  dollars, 
gathered  together  cent  by  cent,  and  then 
thrown  in  a  heap  upon  the  bed  of  a  sick 
man  who  was  not  able  to  earn  his  own 
living.  And  I  built  enough  chdteatix  in 
Spain  that  day  as  I  went  about  my  af- 
fairs to  fill  a  volume  with  the  telling 
about  them. 

I  returned  to  my  room  quite  late  in  the 
evening,  and  naturally  my  first  glance  was 
towards  the  table  upon  which  I  expected  to 
find  the  envelope  that  Peppino  had  left  for 
me;  but  nothing  was  there.  I  searched, 
I  turned  over  everything.  Nothing !  It 
was  strange ;  but  I  said  to  myself  that 
probably  Peppino    did   not   like   to  leave 


PEPPINO.  43 

the  parcel  on  my  table,  and  had  there- 
fore given  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for 
me.  It  was  so  late  that  she  was  doubt- 
less in  bed,  and  it  would  be  cruel  to  wake 
her.  I  would  wait,  and  in  the  morning 
I  should  know  all  about  it.  And  I  went 
quietly  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  I  had 
been  offered  the  head  of  the  dramatic 
department  of  the  **  World."  I  waked 
early.  It  was  Sunday.  My  first  thought 
was  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  ^*  World."  There 
was  my  article,  occupying  three  columns, 
and  looking  so  very  well !  It  was  in  a 
humorous  vein,  and  they  had  really  paid 
me  royally  for  it.  I  read  it  over,  and 
confessed  to  myself  I  was  very  proud 
of  it. 

At  eight  o'clock  my  landlady  knocked 
at  my  door.  ''Ah,"  thought  I,  ''she  is 
coming  to  bring  my  envelope  !  " 

*'  Have  you  the  '  World,'  Mr.  Fortuna,'* 
said  the  woman,  ''  and  would  you  lend 
it  to  me?" 

"  Certainly,  Mrs.  Woodmilken ;  and  with 
all  the  more  pleasure  that  you  will  be  able 


44  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

to  read  my  article,  of  three  columns,  Mrs. 
Woodmilken/' 

'*  Indeed  !  "  she  muttered. 

Meantime  I  waited  for  my  money;  but 
not  a  word. 

''  By  the  by,  madam,'*  I  said,  *^  if  you 
would  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  my  en- 
velope—  " 

*^What  envelope  ?'*  she  asked. 

**Why,  you  know  —  Peppino,  did  he  not 
leave  something  with  you  for  me?*' 

^'  Absolutely  nothing,*'  croaked  the  bird 
of  ill  omen ;  and  she  went  away  evidently 
glad  to  see  that  I  was  troubled  a  little  by 
something  about  the  despised  Italian  boy. 

**  Oh,  well !"  I  said  to  myself,  *'  Peppino 
will  soon  be  here,  and  then  all  will  be 
explained."  Nine  o'clock  struck,  and  then 
ten,  and  so  time  went  on  until  noon. 
Then  I  began  to  be  restless,  and  went  out, 
walking  to  the  corner  where  Peppino 
always  was.  No  Peppino.  Then  I  went 
to  Union  Square,  where  Antonio  ought 
to  be.  Not  the  shadow  of  Antonio.  This 
began  to  be  decidedly  strange.     At  three 


PEPPINO,  45 

o^clock  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
house  in  Crosby  Street.  The  door  was 
hermetically  sealed.  By  this  time  I  was 
seriously  anxious.  The  next  day  the 
same  search,  with  the  same  result.  I 
went  to  the  ** World'*  office.  The  check 
had  been  paid  in  bills  and  given  to  the 
bearer  who  brought  my  letter.  What  was 
I  to  think?  I  went  back  to  the  house 
where  Peppino  lodged,  and  asked  the 
neighbors  if  they  knew  anything  of  him. 
They  had  not  seen  the  boy  for  two  days. 
Antonio  had  gone  to  Chicago  some  time 
before,  and  Filippo  also  was  away,  travel- 
ling with  a  troupe  of  Spanish  students. 

Then  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  resources, 
and  had  to  make  up  my  mind,  most  sor- 
rowfully, that  the  boy  had  either  been 
assassinated  perhaps,  or  at  all  events  my 
money  —  ah,  no  !  It  was  horrible  to  sus- 
pect even  for  a  moment  the  boy,  who  was 
honor  itself.  Nevertheless,  I  must  confess 
that  the  idea  came  to  me  that  perhaps 
poor  Peppino  had  lost  the  money  and  had 
hidden  away  in  the  fear  of  confessing  it. 


46  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

Two  days  went  by ;  three ;  a  whole  week. 
Then  I  put  on  mourning  for  my  money  as 
lost,  and  tried  to  fall  back  on  whatever 
scepticism  I  possessed  on  the  subject  of 
Italian  boys. 

One  evening,  in  loafing  about  the  streets, 
I  found  myself  in  front  of  the  yard  of  the 
Bellevue  Hospital,  and  in  passing  the  gate 
I  heard  a  voice  calling,  **  Signore,  signore." 
I  turned,  and  what  did  I  see?  Peppino, 
face  to  face  with  me.  A  torrent  of  ques- 
tions poured  out  of  my  mouth  before  I 
could  pay  attention  to  anything.  Then  as 
he  came  nearer  to  me  I  saw  that  he  was 
lame  in  his  right  leg.  I  looked  more  at- 
tentively at  him.  He  was  pale,  frightfully 
pale. 

**  But  what  is  the  matter?'*  I  asked. 
**  What  are  you  doing  here?'* 

**  It  is  the  hospital  here,"  he  answered. 
And  he  told  me  how  on  the  very  day  he 
went  to  the  **  World  "  office  for  me  he  had 
been  run  over  by  a  heavy  cart,  how  he  had 
been  picked  up  and  carried  to  the  hospital 
in  a  fainting  condition,   and  how  no   one 


FEFFINO.  47 

had  been  able  to  understand  what  he  said 
when  he  revived. 

^*  But  you  did  wrong  not  to  send  for 
me,"  I  said;  ''you  knew  so  well  that  I 
was  your  friend." 

''  Yes,"  answered  the  child  hesitatingly, 
''but  —  " 

"But  —  " 

"  I  did  not  know  your  name,  signore." 

It  was  true.  How  much  these  simple 
words  meant  to  me !  He  did  not  even 
know  my  name,  and  he  had  done  so  much 
for  me.  I  learned  afterwards  that  he  had 
tried  to  tell  them  where  I  lived ;  but  as  he 
could  give  no  name,  and  his  English  was 
worse  than  poor,  they  did  nothing  about  it. 

"And  the  money  that  you  got  for  me 
that  day,  my  poor  child,  of  course  it  was 
lost  when  you  fell  in  the  street?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "  I  never  lose 
money;  I  never  lost  a  cent  of  it.  I  put 
it,  you  know,  in  a  book  on  the  table,  for 
fear  that  the  bad,  cross  landlady  would  see 
it.  I  don't  like  to  have  business  with 
her." 


48  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

''  The  book?  On  the  table?  Ah,  I  see  ! 
You  are  much  better,  are  you  not?  Would 
you  like  to  come  away  with  me?  You 
shall  be  well  taken  care  of.  I  will  speak 
to  the  doctor  here  about  it." 

'^  Fate  come  volete.  Do  as  you  please, 
signore." 

I  went  to  the  office  of  the  hospital,  and 
was  allowed  to  claim  the  boy  and  take  him 
away.  I  called  a  hack  and  put  him  care- 
fully in  it  and  carried  him  home.  He  was 
still  quite  lame,  although  no  bones  had 
been  broken.  He  was  able  to  get  upstairs 
with  the  assistance  of  the  hack-driver  and 
myself;  but  when  he  reached  the  door  of 
my  room  he  refused  all  aid,  and  hopping 
on  one  foot,  scrambled  as  quickly  as  he 
could  to  my  writing-table,  and  resting  the 
lame  leg  on  a  chair,  began  to  turn  over  all 
my  books.  At  last,  at  the  very  bottom  of 
all,  he  found  an  old  *'  OUendorf,'*  and  took 
possession  of  it  with  great  joy.  He  opened 
it,  took  an  envelope  out  from  between  the 
leaves,  and  waved  it  in  the  air. 

^^  Ecco  r^   he  cried,  his  eyes  full  of  de- 


PEPPINO.  49 

light.  ''  Here  is  the  money  !  I  hope  that 
you  never  had  a  doubt  of  me?  " 

I  embraced  him  with  all  my  heart,  and 
assured  him  that  I  could  never  think  any 
ill  of  him. 

Will  you  believe  it,  my  reader?  the  poor 
boy  had  not  dared  to  open  the  envelope, 
as  I  had  given  him  full  authority  to  do. 
His  own  money  was  there,  as  well  as  mine, 
and  OUendorf  had  taken  the  best  care  of 
our  little  fortune. 

Peppino  remained  with  me  a  week,  sleep- 
ing on  my  sofa  and  being  cared  for  by  a 
good  doctor  who  would  not  accept  any 
remuneration  for  his  frequent  visits.  More 
than  that,  when  the  child  was  able  to  work 
again,  and  had  taken  his  old  stand  at  the 
corner  of  Prince  Street,  the  doctor  became 
one  of  his  regular  customers,  and  never 
failed  to  shake  hands  with  him  and  give 
him  ten  cents  every  time  he  blacked  his 
boots. 

Peppino  was  very  proud  of  his  aristo- 
cratic friends,  and  always  declared  that  it 
was  to  me  that  he  owed  everything.     But, 

4 


50  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

on  the  contrary,  I  considered  that  all  the 
luck  was  on  my  side  in  having  met  that 
rare  thing  in  this  world,  —  a  good  and 
honest  heart. 

And  let  me  beg  of  you,  my  readers,  — 
if,  indeed,  you  are  of  the  masculine 
gender,  —  never  to  go  by  the  corner  of 
Prince  Street  without  stopping  to  have 
your  boots  blacked  by  Peppino. 

Peppino  is  modest,  and  I  cannot  give 
him  greater  pleasure  than  by  putting  my 
own  obscure  name  in  the  shadow,  as  it 
were,  of  his  great  honesty. 


ONLY   A    DOG. 


ONLY  A  DOG. 


m 


NYBODY  who  happened,  several 
years  ago,  to  visit  pier  No.  —  on 
the  North  River,  whence  sail  the 
steamers  of  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
best  patronized  ocean  steamship  com- 
panies, must  have  known  **  Jack/*  Jack 
was  a  celebrity  of  the  place,  and,  unHke 
other  celebrities,  enjoyed  a  vast  popu- 
larity among  the  sailors,  'longshoremen, 
custom-house  officers,  and  other  water-side 
characters. 

If  a  stranger  came  on  the  pier  and 
noticed  the  big  black  dog  curled  up  in  a 
corner  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  pier,  he 
was  sure  to  meet  with  somebody  who 
could   tell  him  that  that   dog  was    called 


54  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

''  Jack/'  and  that  there  was  a  story  about 
him  well  known  all  around  the  place. 

The  dog  had  come  there  with  his  master 
on  a  departure    day.     In  the  bustle    and 
confusion  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  latter, 
who    did    not  seem  to   care   a  great   deal 
about   him.     The   poor   brute    ran   about 
the  pier  whining  and  crying,  with  haggard 
eyes  and  panting  breath,  until  the  last  bell 
sounded,  the  plank  was  drawn  in,  and  the 
ship  glided  off  through  the  still  waters  of 
the  river.    Then  a  frenzy  of  despair  seemed 
to   seize  the  dog.     Standing  on  the  very 
extremity  of  the  pier,  he  broke  out  into  a 
dismal  howl  which  did  not  cease  until  the 
last  wreath  of  smoke  from  the  steamer  had 
disappeared    on   the   horizon   beyond   the 
Narrows.     Then  he  lay  down,  and  all  at- 
tempts to  drive   him  off  the  pier   proved 
vain.     He  was   a  big  fellow,   of  a   queer, 
mixed  breed,  —  something  between  a  New- 
foundland and  a  Danish  dog,  —  and  he  had 
an  uncomfortable  way  of  showing  his  teeth 
when    anybody  tried  to   drive  him   away. 
At  first  the  people  on  the  pier  wanted  to 


ONLY  A   DOG.  55 

shoot  him ;  but  on  after  thoughts  they  re- 
solved to  let  him  stay  where  he  was,  hop- 
ing he  would  make  a  good  watch-dog. 

For  many  a  day  and  night  he  remained 
lying  there  at  the  same  place  whence  he 
had  watched  the  departure  of  the  steamer. 
At  night  he  did  not  sleep,  but  howled  dis- 
mally. The  old  night  watchman  on  the  pier 
took  pity  on  him,  and  supposing  he  was  hun- 
gry, brought  him  the  remnants  of  his  own 
supper  and  a  pail  of  water.  The  dog 
wagged  his  tail  and  licked  the  old  man's 
hands  gratefully,  but  did  not  touch  the  food. 
He  lay  there,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  spot 
where  the  ship  had  disappeared,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  moaning  miserably. 

Thus  the  days  passed  on.  Jack  had 
dwindled  almost  to  a  skeleton.  Nearly 
ten  days  elapsed  before  he  began  to  eat, 
but  nothing  could  induce  him  to  leave  the 
pier.  The  old  watchman,  to  whom  he 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy,  tried  to 
coax  him  to  his  home ;  but  in  vain.  The 
dog  followed  him  as  far  as  the  street,  but 
there  invariably  left  him,  with  a  farewell 


56  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

wag  of  his  bushy  tail,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
say:  ^*  I  am  sensible  of  your  kindness, 
good  man,  but  you  are  not  my  master; 
duty  before  all !  " 

And  he  trotted  back,  whining  in  a  melan- 
choly undertone.  Nothing  could  induce 
him  to  leave  the  post  of  observation  he 
had  selected,  —  an  open  space  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  pier.  There  he  lay  day 
after  day,  night  after  night,  in  the  scorch- 
ing August  sun  and  through  the  dreary 
storms  of  winter.  When  the  sea-wind 
howled,  throwing  up  huge  waves  against 
the  massive  structure  of  the  pier,  the  spray 
covering  the  woodwork  with  a  sheet  of  ice ; 
when  all  around  seemed  deserted  and  dead ; 
when  even  old  Pat,  the  night  watchman, 
crept  into  his  cabin  and  shivered  under 
his  old  coat,  —  Jack  stuck  to  his  post. 
Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  he  stood  on 
the  brink  of  the  pier  howling  dismally  into 
the  storm,  —  a  black  silhouette  against  the 
black  wintry  sky.  He  was  evidently  per- 
fectly aware  of  the  fact  that  his  master 
had    left  on   board   a  ship,  for  on  arrival 


ONLY  A   DOG.  5/ 

days  a  great  change  seemed  to  come  over 
poor  Jack.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the  great 
bulk  of  a  vessel  looming  over  the  pier,  a 
feverish  agitation  seized  him.  With  eyes 
glowing  and  ears  erect,  he  ran  to  and  fro, 
panting  breathlessly.  While  the  ponder- 
ous vessel  was  being  slowly  warped  in 
alongside  the  pier  a  breathless,  devouring 
impatience  racked  the  poor  dog's  heart,  for 
on  seeing  him  thus,  what  hopeless  sceptic 
could  have  doubted  that  he  had  a  heart? 

Sometimes,  with  an  impatient  yelp,  he 
sprang  all  fours  on  a  large  post  which 
stood  out  of  the  water  about  a  yard  dis- 
tant from  the  pier  itself;  there  he  evi- 
dently thought  he  was  nearer  to  the  ship 
and  to  his  master.  When  at  last  the  gang- 
w^ay  was  lowered,  his  first  impulse  was  to 
run  on  board.  Rut  driven  away  by  the 
deck-hands,  he  remained  on  the  pier  scruti- 
nizing with  eager,  blood-shot  eyes  every 
passenger.  Sometimes  when  some  figure, 
presenting  from  a  distance  a  vague  resem- 
blance to  his  master,  struck  his  view%  he 
rushed  forward  with  a  joyful  bark;    then. 


58  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

convinced  of  his  mistake,  he  stopped  short 
and  turned  back  despondingly  until  some 
other  man  attracted  his  attention.  Thus  he 
waited  until  the  last  passenger  had  landed. 
When  he  perceived  that  all  hope  for  this 
time  was  in  vain,  he  returned  to  his  cus- 
tomary post,  rolled  himself  up  in  a  corner, 
and  —  I  was  going  to  say,  "cried;''  for 
never  did  I  see  in  a  dog's  eyes  such  an 
expression  of  utter  misery  and  despair. 

Many  a  time  I  was  a  witness  of  this 
scene,  and  it  never  failed  to  make  on  me 
a  deep  impression.  Poor  humanity,  I 
thought!  We  are  so  proud  of  being  the 
kings  of  the  earth,  we  deem  ourselves  in 
matters  of  intellect  and  feeling  to  be  so  im- 
measurably higher  than  all  the  rest  of  the. 
live  creation,  that  we  repulse  as  an  offence 
the  very  idea  of  a  comparison  between  us 
and  other  animals.  And  yet  here  is  that 
dog  living  for  months  and  months  wrapped 
up  in  one  feeling  of  attachment  to  his  mas- 
ter—  to  a  master  who  seemingly  did  not 
even  care  much  for  him ;  for  how  else  could 
he  have  thus  heedlessly  left  him  behind?  — 


ONLY  A  DOG.  59 

to  a  master  of  whom  he  could  expect  nei- 
ther food,  nor  a  gentle  word,  nor  a  caress. 
And  then  I  thought  how  many  mothers 
had  gone  by  that  same  ship,  leaving  their 
sons  and  daughters  behind ;  how  many 
wives  and  husbands  had  been  torn  from 
one  another ;  how  many  lovers  had  drowned 
their  parting  kiss  in  a  flood  of  tears,  vow- 
ing to  each  other  eternal  love  !  Where  now 
were  all  these  sons,  husbands,  and  lovers? 
The  great  ocean  of  life  had  dragged  them 
down  into  its  never-resting  whirlpool ;  and 
battling  with  its  waves,  they  had  doubtless 
acquired,  long  ago,  new  habits,  new  forms 
of  existence.  New  purposes  and  interests 
had  engrossed  all  their  energies,  absorbing 
the  best  and  the  noblest  part  of  their  heart 
and  mind,  and  only  at  rare  intervals,  per- 
haps in  the  dead  of  night,  did  the  old  feel- 
ing haunt  their  heart's  memory,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  long-forgotten  strain,  like  the 
image  of  a  once  dear  face  seen  in  a  glass 
darkly ! 

Poor  Jack,  however,  was  not  destined  to 
remain  friendless.     Some  two  months  after 


6o  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

his  master's  departure  he  found  a  friend 
who  soon  became  devotedly  attached  to 
him.  His  name  was  Jimmy,  and  he  was 
as  forlorn  and  lonely  creature  as  Jack  him- 
self, with  the  slight  difference  that  Jimmy 
was  a  street-boy,  and  Jack  a  dog.  Their 
destinies  and  mode  of  life  hardly  differed, 
however. 

As  Jack  had  probably  first  beheld  the 
light  of  day  on  some  heap  of  refuse  in  a 
backyard,  so  did  Jimmy  find  himself  once 
sprawling  in  the  mud  in  a  dark  and  dingy 
street  of  our  brilliant  metropolis.  There 
was  a  material  difference,  however,  between 
these  children  of  Nature.  While  Jack  had 
until  then  always  found  a  master  who  fed 
and  shielded  him  from  cold  and  rain,  Jim-* 
my  could  boast  of  no  such  thing.  And  this 
was  natural  too,  and  could  not  hav^e  been 
otherwise,  for  Jack,  though  not  of  full 
breed,  still  had  a  price,  and  was  worth 
some  money;  but  who  would  have  ever 
thought  of  giving  a  cent  for  Jimmy?  The 
little  chap  grew  up,  and  did  not  die  of 
hunger, —  not  for  want  of  opportunities  for 


ONLY  A   DOG,  6l 

doing  so,  however,  but  simply  because 
human  nature  is  tough,  exceedingly  tough, 
and  requires  a  good  deal  of  wear  and  tear 
before  it  gives  up  the  game.  When  he 
was  five  years  old  somebody  put  an  even- 
ing newspaper  into  his  tiny  dirty  hand 
and  bade  him  cry  out  its  title  in  the  streets, 
—  which  he  did  in  a  particularly  screeching 
voice  for  four  years  without  intermission, 
flying  off  and  on  car-platforms  with  mon- 
key-like agility,  clinging  occasionally  with 
a  desperate  grip  to  the  rear  of  a  bobtail 
car,  and  plunging  its  driver  into  a  frenzy 
of  impotent  rage ;  in  short,  fulfilling  in 
every  particular  the  well-known  type  of 
the  New  York  street-arab. 

One  frosty  night  an  ill-humored  car- 
conductor  pushed  him  off  the  platform 
a  little  unceremoniously,  as  he  had  been 
pushed  off  hundreds  of  times  before.  But 
on  this  particular  night  the  pavement  was 
very  slippery.  Jimmy  lost  his  balance  and 
fell  on  the  opposite  track  just  as  a  car 
was  passing.  A  faint  shriek,  the  car 
stopped,   and   a    few    moments    later   the 


62  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

little  senseless  and  motionless  body  was 
extricated  from  under  the  wheels,  looking 
like  a  bundle  of  dirty  rags  in  the  arms  of 
a  policeman  who  took  charge  of  him. 

Even  then,  however,  Jimmy  was  not 
dead.  The  doctors  in  the  hospital  cut 
off  one  of  his  legs,  and  were  very  good  to 
him  during  all  the  long,  weary  months 
he  lay  in  bed.  And  when  he  was  well 
and  strong  again,  they  had  a  pair  of 
crutches  made  for  him  and  taught  him 
how  to  use  them,  and  then  said  ''  good- 
by"  to  him.  He  was  once  more  in  the 
streets.  But  no  more  jumping  on  car- 
platforms  now.  Timidly,  scarcely  daring 
to  venture  out  of  the  gates  of  the  hos- 
pital, he  picked  his  way  with  his  crutches, 
stumbling  at  every  step.  When  fairly 
out  in  the  street  he  found  his  condition 
still  more  insupportable.  Small  boys  in 
possession  of  both  their  legs,  inspired  by 
that  innate  good  nature  peculiar  to  the 
gentle  dawn  of  human  life,  taunted  and 
quizzed  him  and  threw  mud  at  him.  The 
din  and  confusion  of  the  great  city  bewil- 


ONLY  A   DOG.  63 

dered  and  dazed  him.  He  grew  faint, 
and  was  about  to  fall  on  the  sidewalk 
when  a  rough  hand  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  lifted  him  up  so  that  both  crutches 
fell  to  the  ground,  and  two  powerful  arms 
carried  him  away  with  the  crutches  — 
v/hither  he  knew  not  and  cared  not.  He 
heard  a  gruff  voice  speaking  to  him  as 
in  a  dream,  and  then  fell  asleep.  He 
awoke  in  a  small,  dark  bar-room  of  the 
river-side,  haunted  exclusively  by  sailors 
and  'longshoremen.  Several  burly,  sun- 
burned fellows  were  standing  apparently 
in  earnest  consultation  around  the  table 
on  which  Jimmy  lay. 

''  Say,  little  chap,"  said  one  of  the  group 
on  seeing  Jimmy  open  his  eyes,  *^  can  you 
sing  a  song?'* 

**  Guess  I  can !  "  was  the  prompt  answer. 

**  Then  it  is  all  right !  "  returned  the  other. 

And  it  was  '^  all  right."  Jimmy  re- 
mained there ;  and  when  of  an  evening 
a  merry  company  met  in  the  little  bar- 
room, he  was  called  forth  to  give  a  song, 
which  he   did,  beating   the  measure  with 


64  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

his  crutches.  This  proved  an  excellent 
business  for  the  saloon-keeper;  the  tiny 
songster  on  crutches  was  "  a  new  feature," 
and  drew  great  and  enthusiastic  audi- 
ences. 

Thus  it  was  that  Jimmy  and  Jack  met. 
The  former  hung  daily  about  the  pier  on 
which  the  latter  bemoaned  his  lost  master, 
and  the  two  outcasts  soon  became  close 
friends.  It  was  touching  to  see  with  what 
almost  fatherly  care  the  big  dog  sur- 
rounded the  poor  little  cripple.  For  him 
he  even  consented  to  leave  the  pier  for 
a  short  time,  and  invariably  accompanied 
him  to  the  door  of  the  bar-room.  And  woe 
to  the  urchin  who  dared  to  tease  or  laugh 
at  Jimmy !  Jack  had  a  peculiar  snarl, 
which  promptly  silenced  all  insolence. 
Often  it  happened  that  in  fine  weather 
Jimmy  lay  all  day  on  the  pier  leaning 
against  Jack's  broad  shoulder,  pulling  his 
ears,  singing  and  speaking  to  him  without 
interruption.  Then  the  dog's  face  took 
a  proud,  dignified  look.  He  lay  there 
without   moving,   not  to   disturb   his   little 


ONLY  A   DOG.  65 

friend,  only  occasionally  turning  his  head 
towards  the  Httle  face  close  by  and  licking 
it  all  over  with  his  broad  tongue.  And 
thus  both  lived  on  together.  The  friend- 
less boy  in  a  city  with  over  a  million  of 
his  fellow-creatures  had  found  a  dog 
which  had  befriended  him. 

On  coming  one  morning  as  usual  to  the 
pier,  Jimmy  found  Jack  lying  on  his  side 
stiff  and  dead  ;  somebody  had  poisoned  the 
dog  over  night:  The  poor  cripple  broke 
out  into  a  flood  of  tears  and  lay  down 
soblDing  on  the  corpse  of  his  only  friend. 
Old  Pat,  who  was  passing  that  way,  stopped 
to  look  at  the  group,  and  said  in  a  severe 
voice,  — 

**  Cheer  up,  now,  lad  !  For  shame ;  *t  is 
but  a  dog  after  all ! " 


B  E  P  P  O 


BEPPO. 

HEY  called  him  Beppo,  and  her  Rita. 

And  seldom,  indeed,  did  it  happen 

that  the  one  was  mentioned  without 

the  other ;    for  if  ever  there  were  bosom 

friends    in    the    world,    Beppo    and    Rita 

were  such. 

Who  were  their  parents?  Who  can  say? 
They  themselves  were  least  able  to  give  a 
satisfactory  answer  to  this  question.  All 
they  could  remember  was  that  they  had 
found  themselves  one  day  side  by  side 
basking  in  the  sun  and  scrambling  about 
among  the  sands  and  pebbles  of  the  shore 
at  Naples,  that  since  that  day  that  shore 
had  become  their  home,  and  that  they  had 
always  remained  together.  Thrice  a  day 
Zio  Antonio  (Uncle  Antonio)  took  them 


70  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

to  his  hut  and  gave  them  macaroni  and 
friLtti  di  7nare.  When  night  came,  if  Rita 
felt  chilly,  they  knocked  at  Antonio's  door 
and  huddled  together  among  his  nets  and 
fishing-tackle.  But  mostly  they  remained 
lying  on  the  sand,  looking  at  the  bright 
stars  overhead,  chattering  and  laughing 
until  the  great  sea  lulled  its  children  to 
sleep  with  its  deep,  soft  murmur. 

Beppo  was  somewhat  older  than  Rita, 
and  she  looked  up  to  him  as  to  her  natural 
and  powerful  protector.  He  was  proudly 
conscious  of  this,  and  would  have  sprung 
into  a  lion's  jaws  to  shield  her  from  harm. 

So  they  grew  up,  like  all  that  is  alive  in 
Nature  grows  up  in  those  blessed  climes,  — 
children  of  the  rich,  burning  soil  on  which 
they  lay,  of  the  blue  sea  which  like  a 
mother  sang  them  to  sleep. 

Beppo  was  about  fourteen,  and  Rita  per- 
haps two  years  younger,  when  Zio  Antonio 
announced  to  them  that  in  future  they  had 
no  more  macaroni  to  expect  from  him,  for 
he  was  going  away  —  far,  far  away  —  to  a 
land  called  America.     Things  looked  bad 


BEPPO.  71 

in  Naples,  he  said,  molta  ge7ite  e  poco 
danaro  (many  people  and  little  money)  ; 
and  so  he  preferred  work  in  foreign  lands 
to  starvation  at  home. 

The  poor  children  cried  bitterly  in  tak- 
ing leave  of  the  old  man.  He  was  the  only 
human  being  who  had  ever  cared  for  them, 
and  now  they  were  all -alone  in  the  world. 
It  was  not  for  his  macaroni  alone  that  they 
cried ;  as  long  as  there  was  a  fisherman  on 
the  shore  they  had  no  fear  of  hunger.  But 
the  macaroni  is,  after  all,  not  everything 
in  life,  even  to  a  Neapolitan  lazzarone. 
After  Zio  Antonio  had  left  them,  Beppo 
grew  daily  more  restless  and  thoughtful. 
He  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  sand,  his  dark, 
sparkling  eyes  fixed  with  a  longing  look  on 
the  blue  space  of  open  sea  between  Capri 
and  Ischia;  and  when  Rita  crept  up  to 
him,  and,  nestling  on  his  lap,  asked  what 
he  thought  about,  he  answered :  *^  Zio 
Antonio  and  that  foreign  land  he  has 
gone  to.'* 

One  day,  as  they  were  thus  sitting 
together,    a    man    dressed    like     a    sailor 


72  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

approached  them,  and,  tapping  Beppo  on 
the  shoulder,  said, — 

''  Cheer  up,  my  lad ;  I  have  good  news 
for  you  from  Zio  Antonio.  I  have  seen 
the  old  man  on  the  other  side ;  he  is  doing 
very  well,  and  is  fast  becoming  rich. 
Would  you  hke  to  go  to  him?  That  ship, 
the  captain  of  which  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
starts  to-morrow.  He  will  give  you  a  free 
passage  for  Antonio's  sake." 

Beppo  sprang  up  in  delight. 

"  Of  course  we  will  go,''  he  exclaimed; 
*^ won't  we,  Rita?" 

*'  As  you  will,  Beppo,"  she  answered, 
simply. 

And  the  pair  started,  hand  in  hand,  pre- 
ceded by  the  sailor.  The  same  night  they 
were  brought  on  board  the  ship,  where 
the  captain,  a  burly,  coarse-looking,  red- 
haired  fellow,  met  them. 

''  Hallo,  Domenico,"  he  cried,  ''  are  you 
bringing  me  some  more?  We  are  pretty 
full  already." 

''  Only  two  more,"  answered  the  man. 
''  Squeeze  them  up  a  bit." 


BEPFO.  73 

Then  the  captain  and  the  man  who 
brought  the  children  drew  aside  and  held 
a  whispered  conference.  Some  money 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  then  the 
sailor  jumped  into  his  boat  and  rowed 
back  to  the  shore. 

''What  are  you  staring  at?"  cried  the 
captain  to  the  children,  who  stood  on  deck 
side  by  side,  bewildered,  amazed  by  all 
they  had  seen  and  heard.  ''  Go  down 
and  sleep.''  Saying  which,  he  seized  them 
roughly  by  the  shoulder  and  pushed  them 
down  a  steep  ladder  into  an  utterly  dark 
and  narrow  hole.  Groping  their  way 
through  the  darkness,  the  children  stum- 
bled at  each  step  they  made  on  prostrate 
human  forms.  Cries  and  groans  arose,  and 
chilled  their  hearts  with  nameless  terror. 
Beppo,  with  Rita  half  fainting  in  his  arms, 
rushed  back  to  the  ladder;  but  it  had 
already  been  drawn  up.  He  screamed 
aloud ;  nobody  answered  him.  He  shook 
his  fists  and  stamped  on  the  floor  in  im- 
potent rage;  all  in  vain.  They  were 
locked  up,   buried  alive.     With   difficulty 


74  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

Beppo  succeeded  in  finding  an  empty 
space  on  the  floor.  He  took  Rita  in  his 
arms,  and,  pressed  closely  against  each 
other,  both  children  cried  themselves  to 
sleep. 

When  they  awoke,  the  broad  daylight 
streamed  in  through  the  hatchway.  In 
the  narrow  and  close  space  forming  a  part 
of  the  steerage  a  dozen  or  more  ragged 
children  of  all  ages,  from  ten  to  sixteen, 
were  crowded  together,  lying  on  the  bare 
floor,  with  no  other  bedding  than  their 
own  miserable  rags.  One  by  one  the 
poor  wretches  awoke,  crying  bitterly. 
The  ship  had  heaved  her  anchor  during 
the  night  and  had  already  gained  the 
open  sea. 

*'What  does  this  mean?  What  is  going 
to  become  of  us?''  asked  Beppo  of  his 
neighbor,  a  little  chap  of  scarcely  ten 
years  of  age,  who  cried  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 

''  We  are  sold,'*  cried  the  little  one,  sob- 
bing, *'  sold  to  wild  people  over  the  seas, 
who  will  roast  us  and  eat  us." 


BEPPO.  75 

The  whole  passage,  which  lasted  nearly 
two  months,  was  an  uninterrupted  series  of 
suffering  for  the  children.  Not  one  soul 
on  board  cared  for  them  in  any  way. 
Their  food  was  brought  to  them  twice  a 
day  in  a  trough,  and  consisted  for  the  most 
part  of  sea-biscuit  soaked  in  water.  Most 
of  the  children  dwindled  to  skeletons  be- 
fore they  reached  New  York.  Two  of 
them  died,  and  the  corpses  were  thrown 
overboard  without  further  ceremony. 
•  But  of  all  these  hardships  and  sufferings 
Beppo  felt  little ;  his  attention  was  too  in- 
tensely absorbed  by  the  care  he  had  to 
bestow  on  poor  Rita,  who  was  sick  nearly 
the  whole  time.  The  lad  nursed  her  with  a 
touching,  untiring  devotion ;  and  w^hen  at 
length  he  heard  that  New  York  was  in 
sight,  his  heart  leaped  with  joy.  He  for- 
got all  the  uncertainty  of  their  future  doom 
in  the  joy  of  the  one  feeling  that  Rita 
would  feel  well  again. 

The  next  day  after  the  ship  had  come 
to  anchor  in  the  North  River,  two  uncom- 
monly mean  and   brutal   looking   Itahans 


'je  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

came  on  board,  and  were  received  by  the 
captain  with  unusual  honors.  After  indulg- 
ing in  a  copious  libation  in  the  captain's 
cabin,  the  three  worthies  proceeded  on 
deck  and  ordered  the  children  to  be 
brought  out.  The  little  ones  flocked  out, 
shivering  in  the  chilly  atmosphere  of  a 
November  morning.  Every  one  of  them 
was  minutely  scrutinized  by  both  visitors. 
Half  of  the  party  remained  on  board ;  the 
rest,  five  in  number,  among  them  Rita  and 
Beppo,  were  packed  into  the  boat  and 
brought  on  shore.  On  landing,  the  pad- 
roni separated,  —  the  one  taking,  with  three 
children,  an  easterly  direction,  and  the 
other  driving  Beppo  and  Rita  before  him 
like  a  yoke  of  oxen  in  the  direction  of 
Baxter  Street. 

While  walking,  the  Italian  explained  to 
Beppo  that  his  name  was  Matteo,  and  that 
they  were  going  to  live  together. 

**And  where  is  Zio  Antonio?"  asked 
the  lad  in  despair. 

''What  do  I  know  about  your  Zio 
Antonio?''    rejoined  the  padrone   gruffly. 


BEPPO. 


77 


"  You  have  no  business  to  know  anybody 
but  me." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  With  each 
step  through  the  busy,  roaring  streets  the 
poor  children  became  more  frightened  and 
bewildered  by  the  bustle  which  surrounded 
them.  A  feeling  of  utter  despair  and  help- 
lessness seized  Beppo  as  he  became  con- 
scious of  the  impossibility  of  finding  Zio 
Antonio  amid  the  waves  of  this  human 
ocean. 

**  Here  we  are/'  said  Matteo,  stopping 
in  the  doorway  of  one  of  the  loftiest  and 
most  dingy  tenement-houses  in  Baxter 
Street;  **  follow  me."  He  stepped  into 
the  dark  hall.  The  children  followed, 
trembling  with  an  indefinable  horror. 
The  walls  of  the  hall  were  damp  and 
clammy,  the  air  foul  with  stenches  and  ema- 
nations of  all  kinds.  The  poor  lazzaroni, 
used  to  the  balmy,  invigorating  breezes 
of  the  Mediterranean,  felt  nearly  choked 
in  this  atmosphere.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
corridor  they  descended  a  few  steps  into 
what  seemed  to  be  an  entirely  dark  cellar. 


78  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

Matteo  opened  a  door  in  a  narrow,  badly 
lighted  basement-room,  in  which,  besides  a 
rough  bedstead  in  the  corner,  they  could 
distinguish  only  a  great  heap  of  nondescript 
rags,  peanuts,  egg-shells,  and  rubbish  of 
every  kind.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  stood  a  small  decapitated  iron  stove, 
which  had  evidently  not  yet  been  used 
during  that  season,  for  the  air  in  the  room 
was  damp  and  cold. 

"  There  is  your  bed,"  said  Matteo,  point- 
ing to  a  heap  of  rags  in  the  corner. 
*^  There  is  always  enough  of  that  rubbish 
about  for  you  to  lie  on.  Now  come  along; 
I  will  show  you  your  business.'* 

*'  But  Rita  cannot  walk,"  exclaimed 
Beppo  indignantly.  **  She  has  been  sick 
all  the  way.  Give  her  something  to  eat 
before  going." 

*'  Time  enough  for  that,"  rejoined  Mat- 
teo, grinning.  **  Well,  the  girl  may  remain 
at  home  for  this  once."  Matteo  led  the 
boy  through  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets 
to  one  of  the  busiest  and  noisiest  corners 
of  that    noisy    neighborhood.     There   the 


BEPPO.  79 

worthy  padrone  possessed  a  thriving  pea- 
nut-stand, which  he  intended  to  trust  to 
Beppo,  himself  desiring  to  embrace  a  new 
and  more  lucrative  career. 

From  that  day  a  weary,  miserable  life 
began  for  the  poor  children.  It  was  not 
the  wretched  food  and  cruel  treatment  on 
the  part  of  Matteo  which  pained  them  the 
most ;  it  was  first  of  all  the  dreadful  house, 
the  abominable  underground  hole  in  which 
they  lived,  the  feeling  of  dependence, 
almost  of  slavery,  which  was  hard  to  bear 
for  these  children  of  Nature.  Many  a 
sleepless  night  did  they  spend  sitting  on 
their  heap  of  rags  and  talking  in  a  whis- 
per about  Santa  Lucia  and  the  nights  on 
the  coast  and  Zio  Antonio. 

Sometimes  Rita  accompanied  Beppo  to 
his  peanut-stand.  But  mostly  she  re- 
mained at  home,  or  was  sent  out  by 
Matteo  to  sell  evening  papers,  the  names 
of  which  he  had  taught  her.  One  bitter 
cold  night,  as  Beppo  returned  home  a 
little  earlier  than  usual,  he  heard  on  ap- 
proaching   the    door   of    their   room   the 


8o  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

angry  voice  of  Matteo  swearing  and  scold- 
ing, while  Rita  cried  and  moaned  in  an 
agony  of  pain.  Beppo  rushed  into  the 
room  and  saw  Matteo  holding  the  girl 
by  the  hair  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  lashed  her  naked  back  with  a 
whip.  Beside  himself  with  rage,  Beppo 
sprang  at  Matteo's  throat  and  clung  to  it 
with  such  a  firm  grip  that  the  man  was 
obliged  to  release  poor  Rita.  Of  course 
he  turned  all  his  fury  against  the  boy. 
He  whipped  him  until  the  blood  sprang 
out  of  his  scars ;  then,  opening  the  door, 
he  threw  the  senseless  body  of  the  lad  out 
into  the  inner  yard  of  the  house.  Rita 
ran  after  him,  and  Matteo  locked  both  out, 
saying,  — 

**  Freeze  there  all  night,  you  curs !  *' 

The  cold  air  revived  Beppo  very  soon. 
On  recovering  his  senses,  his  first  question 
was  after  Rita.  She  was  kneeling  by  his 
side,  crying  bitterly. 

''Why  has  the  rascal  whipped  you?'* 
he  asked. 

"  He  wanted  to  teach  me  how  to  draw 


BEFFO.  8 1 

a  handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket  so  that 
he  should  not  feel  it;  and  I  could  not, 
and  then  he  beat  me/'  answered  the  girl, 
sobbing. 

Beppo  said  nothing ;  but  he  clenched  his 
fists,  and  his  eyes  flashed  like  those  of  a 
wild  beast.  Rita  was  shivering  with  cold. 
The  boy  got  up  and  rapped  at  Matteo's 
window.  An  oath  and  an  order  to  keep 
quiet  was  all  the  answer  he  could  get.  With 
every  hour  the  night  became  colder.  An 
icy  wind  came  sweeping  over  the  city,  and, 
descending  into  the  deep  court-yard  in 
Baxter  Street,  kept  whirling  and  whirling 
around,  chilling  the  poor  Italian  children  to 
their  very  hearts.  Beppo  took  off  his  coat 
and  waistcoat  to  keep  Rita  as  warm  as  possi- 
ble, and  feeling  his  limbs  stiffening  in  the 
frost,  leaned  against  the  door  and  drew  the 
girl  close  to  his  bosom.  Thus  they  lay 
as  they  had  so  often  lain,  locked  in  a  close 
embrace  on  the  sand  of  their  native  coast. 
Sleep,  the  great  friend  of  childhood,  for 
whom  there  are  no  rich  and  no  poor,  who 
with   equal   love    and    mercy   extends  his 

6 


82  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

soothing  hand  over  the  palace  and  the 
hut,  closed  their  eyelids  with  a  gentle 
touch,  and  sent  his  sunniest  dreams  to 
soothe  and  to  cheer  them.  A  smile  of 
happiness  hovered  about  their  pale  faces ; 
they  saw  once  more  before  them  the  Bay 
of  Naples  glittering  in  the  rays  of  their 
native  sun,  they  felt  the  warm  breeze  ca- 
ressing their  cheeks.  The  smile  on  their 
lips  grew  brighter  and  happier. 

*'  Beppo  !  "  whispered  the  girl. 

He  heard  her  in  his  sleep,  and  drew 
her  still  closer  to  him. 

And  then  all  was  still.  The  smiling 
friend  of  childhood  had  fled,  and  in  his 
place  a  graver  angel  looked  down  upon 
the  poor  sleeping  waifs  and  took  them 
in  his  arms.  The  sunshine  grew  brighter 
and  brighter  in  their  dreams,  the  breeze 
warmer  and  balmier,  their  smile  more 
radiant.  Thus  they  lay  through  all  that 
long  cold  night.  And  when  the  morn- 
ing came  at  last,  and  all  that  giant  house 
awoke  to  its  day's  misery  and  crime,  the 
two    lifeless   forms   were    found    lying    in 


BEPPO,  83 

close  embrace,  with  the  same  blissful  smile 
illumining  their  faces. 

What  became  of  Matteo?  Nothing,  of 
course.  He  easily  proved  that  he  had 
always  been  a  **  respectable "  man,  that 
he  knew  nothing  about  what  had  become 
of  the  children  on  that  night,  and  that 
by  **  honest  work*'  he  had  collected  a 
few  paltry  dollars,  of  which  he  would 
readily  give  a  share  to  any  friends  who 
would  help  him  out  of  that  scrape.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  he  found 
such  friends  easily. 


THE   "HERR   BARON." 


THE   *^HERR  BARON/' 


CITY  like  New  York  may  well  be 
termed  the  camera-obscura  of  the 
world. 
As  on  the  white  "  reflecting  board  "  of  a 
dark  chamber  all  the  features  of  the  sur- 
rounding landscape  appear  in  accurate 
though  diminished  shapes,  so  do  the  varied 
elements  of  the  population  crowded  to- 
gether on  the  narrow  slip  of  land  between 
the  East  and  the  North  rivers  present  a 
vivid  and  faithful  picture  of  all  nations, 
customs,  and  positions  in  life  from  all 
parts  of  the  world.  These  infinitely  varied 
elements  of  humanity  whose  representa- 
tives crowd  our  streets  are  pressed  to- 
gether in  this  narrow  city  without  mingling 


88  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

with  one  another,  each  retaining  its  own 
peculiarities,  tastes,  and  interests.  As  in 
our  hotels  —  those  immense  caravansaries 
which  are  in  themselves  an  emblem  of  the 
life  in  our  metropolis  —  guests  live  weeks 
and  months  side  by  side  without  caring 
even  to  ask  who  their  neighbors  are,  so 
the  nationalities  constituting  the  popula- 
tion of  the  city  live  side  by  side,  and  yet 
apart. 

Each  nationality  forming  a  part  of  our 
heterogeneous  population  represents  a  little 
world  by  itself,  obeying  its  own  social  laws 
and  customs,  and  jealously  maintaining  all 
its  peculiarities.  Of  these  nationalities  by 
far  the  most  numerous,  best  organized,  and 
most  firmly  combined  by  common  interests, 
recollections,  tastes,  and  ways  of  life,  is  the 
German.  Statistics  prove  New  York  to 
be  the  third  of  the  great  German  cities  of 
the  world ;  and  as  everybody  knows,  there 
are  whole  districts  in  the  city  in  which 
a  knowledge  of  the  German  language  is 
much  more  necessary  than  of  the  English. 
The  characteristic  feature  of  these  districts 


THE  ''  HERR  BARONS  89 

is  undoubtedly  the  beer  '^  saloons,"  which 
are  as  the  stars  in  heaven.  These  estab- 
hshments  scarcely  ought  to  be  designated 
by  a  name  which  in  France  is  associated 
with  remembrances  of  powdered  wigs, 
hoops,  and  Madame  de  Sevigne,  while  in 
America  it  is  suggestive  of  cocktails,  stale 
tobacco-smoke,  and  spittoons.  On  enter- 
ing one  of  the  popular  German  beer- 
houses you  immediately  become  aware  of 
the  fact  that  you  are  in  a  wirthschaft,  and 
not  in  a  saloon.  The  mild  and  soothing 
spirit  of  lager  reigns  here  paramount,  and 
its  influence  is  seen  and  felt  everywhere. 
The  bar  is  nearly  deserted;  no  row  of 
lean,  shrewd-looking,  and  loud-talking  gen- 
tlemen is  to  be  seen  treating  themselves  all 
round  to  mysterious  multicolored  chemi- 
cals served  in  glasses  as  ''  mixed  drinks." 
All  the  guests  here  are  seated  at  round 
tables,  for  the  most  part  in  company  with 
their  families,  with  large  glasses  of  the 
foaming  beverage  before  them,  which  are 
filled  and  refilled  incessantly;  clouds  of 
tobacco-smoke  from  pipes  and  cigars  hang 


90  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

motionless  in  the  air;  the  conversation 
flows  slowly  on  in  a  quiet,  somewhat  drawl- 
ing tone  ;  peace  and  repose,  a  rather  heavy 
but  solid  and  carefully  balanced  sort  of 
enjoyment,  pervade  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place.  The  German  wirthschaft  is  not 
only  a  place  devoted  to  the  sale  and  ab- 
sorption of  liquors ;  it  is  more  than  that : 
it  is  a  national  institution,  to  uphold  which, 
as  for  instance  in  Munich,  many  a  riot  has 
already  been  set  afoot. 

One  night  in  passing  through  one  of  the 
quiet  streets  which  run  from  Second  to 
Third  Avenue,  and  which  some  ten  years 
ago  still  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being 
up  town,  one  particular  wirthschaft,  which 
I  had  not  happened  to  notice  before,  at- 
tracted my  attention  from  its  peculiarly 
snug  look.  The  narrow  entrance  was  half 
concealed  by  the  thick  foliage  of  a  creep- 
ing vine,  from  behind  which  a  lantern, 
with  the  inscription,  ^*  H,  Gorr  —  Wirth- 
schaft," was  barely  visible.  A  small  white 
sign  above  the  door  exhibited  the  word 
^*  Sommergarten."     From    inside  a  female 


THE  ''HERR  BARONS  91 

voice  was  heard  singing  an  old  German 
song,  accompanied  by  a  piano.  Neither 
the  singer  nor  the  instrument  seemed  to 
be  very  much  out  of  tune. 

All  this  had  a  promising  look,  so  I 
stepped  into  the  establishment.  The  bar- 
room and  the  restaurant  were  deserted. 
An  open  door  led  out  into  the  back  yard, 
which  had  been  converted  into  a  summer 
garden,  or  rather  into  a  bower  of  ivy  and 
other  creepers.  Every  available  place  in 
the  ''  garden  "  was  filled  with  small  round 
tables,  and  .every  chair  at  these  tables 
seemed  at  present  to  have  already  its  occu- 
pant. On  my  entering,  however,  a  fleet- 
footed  waiter  came  flying  towards  me  and 
directed  me  to  a  small  table,  situated  be- 
hind the  piano,  which  had  hitherto  passed 
unobserved  by  the  other  guests. 

I  sat  down,  and  was  just  about  to  give 
my  order,  when  the  meagre  form  of  the 
waiter  who  had  welcomed  me  was  sud- 
denly thrust  aside  by  a  superior  force,  and 
in  his  stead  appeared  a  portly,  solemn- 
looking   man,  clad  with  the  most  correct 


92  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

and  irreproachable  elegance,  dress-coat, 
white  waistcoat,  white  necktie,  a  napkin 
wound  round  his  right  hand,  —  in  a  word, 
a  model  of  a  waiter  such  as  any  first-class 
cafe^  from  Delmonico's  to  Bignon's,  might 
have  been  proud  of. 

"You  can  go,  Franz,"  this  majestic  man 
said  to  the  other  waiter  in  a  mellow,  sono- 
rous voice ;  **  I  will  serve  this  gentleman 
myself." 

The  combination  of  condescending  civil- 
ity and  self-importance  he  contrived  to 
throw  into  this  one  word  '^myself "  was 
overwhelming.  In  the  presence  of  this 
majestic  official  my  original  intention  of 
ordering  modestly  *^  one  lager "  melted 
away  like  wax.  I  felt  it  would  be  almost 
a  sacrilege  to  ask  for  so  little  of  so  great  a 
being,  —  it  would  be  like  asking  Jupiter 
for  one  of  his  thunderbolts  to  light  a  cigar- 
ette !  I  muttered  bashfully,  "A  pint  bottle 
of  Rhine  wine,  if  you  please."  The  great 
man  bowed  and  moved  away  as  majesti- 
cally as  he  had  come.  He  had  scarcely 
disappeared  within  the  restaurant,  when  a 


THE  "  HERR  BARONS  93 

strange  half-consciousness  crept  upon  me 
of  having  seen  him  somewhere  before  in 
very  different  circumstances,  where  and 
when  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  recollect. 
Somehow  or  other,  by  a  mysterious  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  pictures  of  a  time  long 
past,  of  better  and  merrier  days,  arose  in 
my  memory.  I  saw  again  the  Boulevards 
of  Paris,  with  all  their  bustle  at  the  hour 
when  the  theatres  close.  I  felt  once  more 
about  me  that  atmosphere  of  feverish  ex- 
citement, of  restless  life,  which  surrounds 
the  great  Babylon  of  Europe.  Had  I  seen 
that  man  at  some  cafe  in  Paris?  No,  it 
was  not  that.  I  could  not  have  remem- 
bered for  five  long  and  eventful  years  such 
a  trifling  circumstance. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  name  flashed  upon 
me.  Waldheim — Count  von  Waldheim 
—  was  the  man  this  waiter  reminded  me 
of,  and  to  whom  he  bore  a  most  striking 
resemblance.  Poor  Waldheim,  he  was  one 
of  the  maddest  viveurs  of  Paris  !  As  open- 
handed  and  generous  as  he  was  reckless, 
always  in  good  spirits,  he  was  the  univer- 


94  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

sal  favorite  of  that  tout  Paris  whose  centre 
is  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

How  well  I  remember  the  last  supper 
the  poor  fellow  gave  us  in  the  corner-room 
of  the  Cafe  Anglais  !  There  were  not  more 
than  a  dozen  of  us,  —  three  or  four  ladies 
in  the  number,  who  by  virtue  of  their 
beauty  and  of  their  diamonds  were  the 
leading  **  stars "  in  that  strange  hemi- 
sphere. I  do  believe  that  was  the  merriest 
night  I  ever  passed  in  my  life.  A  sort  of 
frenzy  of  childish  light-heartedness  seemed 
to  have  seized  on  all  the  guests  at  that 
**  funeral  banquet,"  as  Waldheim  called  it. 
So  uproarious  were  we  in  our  merriment 
that  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  a 
serge7tt  de  ville  sent  up  one  of  the  waiters  to 
request  us  either  to  shut  the  window  or  to 
make  less  noise,  as  we  were  disturbing  the 
neighborhood.  At  daybreak  Waldheim 
sprang  up  from  his  seat,  filled  his  glass  for 
the  last  time,  and  opening  the  balcony 
door,  pointed  to  the  Boulevards  stretching 
quiet  and  deserted  at  our  feet  in  the  dim 
gray  light  of  dawn. 


THE  ''HERR  BARON:'  95 

*'  My  last  toast,  ladies  and  gentlemen," 
he  exclaimed,  ''  is  to  this  great  living  mon- 
ster of  Paris,  which  has  devoured  me  and  so 
many  others  !  For  thee,  in  thine  enchant- 
ing embrace,  I  have  lost  all  I  possessed  in 
the  world.  A  beggar  now,  I  bid  thee  fare- 
well !     MorituruSy  Ccesar,  te  saluto  !  " 

He  emptied  his  glass  and  threw  it 
out  of  the  window  on  the  pavement  be- 
low. Then  he  took-  leave  of  all  of  us, 
making  us  promise  not  to  follow  him  and 
not  to  search  for  him  during  at  least  three 
days,  and  was  about  to  quit  the  room, 
when  Valentine  Ghemar,  one  of  the  ladies 
present,  a  well-known  operetta-singer  of 
the  time,  sprang  up,  and  flinging  her  arms 
impetuously  around  Waldheim's  neck, 
exclaimed, — 

**You  are  a  man,  a  brave  man,  and  I 
love  you  !  Wherever  you  go,  let  me  go 
with  you  ! '' 

*^  My  dear  little  Valentine,''  answered 
Waldheim  with  a  sad  smile,  *^  no  ro- 
mance, if  you  please  !  The  times  of  love 
in  a  cottage  are  passed.     Here  in  Paris,  if 


96  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

the  cottage  took  the  shape  of  a  Httle  hotel 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  it  might  be  all  very- 
well.  But  where  I  am  now  going  things  will 
look  different;  it  will  be  up-hill  work,  a 
fierce  battle  with  want  and  death,  and  not 
a  life  you,  a  delicate  hot-house  flower, 
might  share  with  me.  No,  no;  let  me 
go,"  he  said,  gently  disengaging  himself 
from  her  embrace.  *^  Farewell,  and  be 
happy,  all  of  you  !  '\ 

With  these  words  he  disappeared,  leaving 
us  all  moved  to  the  heart,  and  poor  Valen- 
tine sobbing  disconsolately. 

In  Paris  everybody  still  remembers  the 
dreadful  scandal  Count  Waldheim's  sud- 
den disappearance  occasioned.  The  scan- 
dal was  perhaps  the  greater  because  the 
Count  had  left  no  debts  unpaid.  Such 
conduct  society  judged  to  be  preposterous, 
incomprehensible.  What  business  had 
a  man  to  run  away  after  paying  all  his 
debts,  when  by  paying  half  of  them,  and 
cheating  his  creditors  out  of  the  rest,  he 
could  have  gone  on  living  like  a  gen- 
tleman?      Two    days    later    the    scandal- 


THE  ''  HERR  BARONr  97 

mongers  had  a  new  and  still  more  sensa- 
tional topic  to  comment  upon,  —  Valentine 
Ghemar  had  broken  all  her  engagements, 
and  quitted  Paris  the  same  night.  All  the 
newspapers  were  full  of  romantic  stories 
about  this  double  disappearance,  till  at 
last  an  enterprising  reporter  of  the  *'  Fig- 
aro '*  succeeded  in  ascertaining  that  Count 
Waldheim  had  sailed  from  Havre  to  New 
York,  and  that  Valentine  Ghemar  had 
been  seen  on  board  the  same  vessel. 
Since  then  nobody  had  ever  heard  from 
either  of  the  fugitives ;  the  huge  waves  of 
Parisian  life  closed  over  them,  and  in  a 
month  both  were  forgotten. 

This  old  story  was  revived  in  my  mem- 
ory by  the  sight  of  the  majestic  waiter  in 
a  small  New  York  wirthschaft.  *'What  an 
extraordinary  resemblance!"  I  thought; 
**  could  it  be  possible?"  But  I  laughed 
at  the  bare  suggestion  that  the  brilliant, 
dashing  Count  Waldheim  could  have 
been  transformed  into  a  kellner ! 

Presently  this  personage  returned,  bear- 
ing the  bottle  of  wine  I  had  ordered,  neatly 

7 


98  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

wrapped  up  in  a  napkin.  While  he  was 
uncorking  it,  an  elderly  gentleman,  appar- 
ently an  habitue  of  the  place,  entered  the 
garden,  and  passing  by  the  waiter,  tapped 
him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder,  saying: 
**  How  do  you  do  to-night,  Herr  Baron?  '' 

I  started  involuntarily  on  hearing  the 
title,  and  again  looked  fixedly  at  the 
man.  The  resemblance  to  Waldheim  was 
perfectly  wonderful. 

''Why  do  they  call  you  Herr  Baron?'*  I 
asked,  while  he  was  filling  my  glass. 

"  It  is  a  joke,  sir,  of  some  of  the  friends 
of  the  house,''  he  answered,  smiling  dis- 
creetly; ''they  pretend  that  I  look  like  a 
baron.'* 

"  Not  like  a  baron,"  I  retorted,  staring 
him  straight  in  the  face,  "  but  very  much 
like  a  count.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
Count  von  Waldheim?" 

He  turned  suddenly  pale,  and  his  hand 
shook  as  he  put  the  bottle  down  on  the 
table. 

"No,  sir,"  he  answered  with  difificulty; 
"  I  never  heard  the  name." 


THE  ''HERR  BARONr  99 

His  discomfiture  had,  however,  ah*eady 
betrayed  him.  So  I  rose,  and  stretching 
out  my  hand  to  him,  said  in  an  undertone : 

^^Waldheim,  don't  you  know  me?'' 

*^  By   all    that   is   wonderful ! "    he   ex- 

claim.ed,  '*  can  this  really  be  you,  S ? 

For  Heaven's  sake  do  riot  speak  to  me 
here !  Nobody  knows  me.  And  oh  that 
you  should  be  the  first  to  see  me  in  such 
a  plight !  " 

**  My  dear  friend  !  "  I  observed,  "  do  not 
let  this  circumstance  put  you  out  in  the 
least.  If  one  of  us  is  to  be  pitied,  it  is  I. 
I  am  a  journalist !  '* 

Waldheim  laughed,  and  said  in  a  more 
cheerful  tone,  — 

'^  Well,  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  all 
the  same.  In  half  an  hour  we  close  here. 
Will  you  then  wait  a  moment  for  me  out- 
side? We  can  have  a  talk  about  old 
times." 

I  of  course  assented,  and  an  hour  later 
we  were  both  established  in  a  snug  corner 
of  a  Third  Avenue  oyster-saloon  in  the 
company   of   a    bottle   of   champagne   to 


lOO  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

which  the  "  Herr  Baron ''  had  insisted  on 
treating  me. 

*'  And  Valentine  Ghemar,  where  is  she?  " 
was  my  first  question.  "  The  papers  said  at 
the  time  that  you  had  gone  off  together  ?  " 

^' Yes, —  quite  in  spite  of  me,  however. 
I  had  not  the  remotest  notion  of  the  girl's 
escapade  until  she  all  of  a  sudden  ap- 
peared on  the  ship  when  we  were  already 
out  of  the  harbor.  Poor  girl !  she  was  a 
madcap,  but  a  good,  loving  soul.'* 

*'  You  speak  of  her  in  the  past,  —  is  she 
dead?" 

'^  Worse,"  rejoined  Waldheim  sorrow- 
fully;   *^she  is  married!" 

*' Married!  "I  echoed;  *' is  it  possible? 
To  whom?  " 

"To  an  Alsatian  named  Schmittberger, 
a  head  clerk  at  one  of  the  most  important 
breweries  in  the  city." 

''  Howvery  extraordinary  all  that  sounds," 
I  exclaimed.  '^  But  now  you  must  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it,  my  dear  fellow.  Come, 
tell  me  all  that  has  befallen  you  on  our 
glorious  soil  of  liberty." 


THE  ''  HERR  BARONS  lOI 

Waldheim  filled  both  our  glasses,  and 
began  by  reciting  in  a  lugubrious  voice : 

"  *  Infandum,  regina,  jubes  renovare  dolorem  ! ' 

My  career  so  far  has  not  been  a  glorious 
one.  I  have  been  alternately  a  washer  in 
a  public  bath,  a  street-cleaner,  a  reporter 
on  a  German  paper,  a  'boy*  on  a  farm  in 
Jersey  (the  people  actually  called  me  '  boy,' 
and  gave  me  the  romantic  name  of  Jimmy), 
a  tramp,  a  sleeper  in  the  parks,  and  a  car- 
driver.  My  last  position  was  that  of  a 
*  sandwich.'  I  trotted  up  and  down  Broad- 
way clad  as  an  Indian,  with  a  great  adver- 
tisement for  Indian-clubs  on  my  back,  and 
another  for  some  *  miraculous  toothache- 
drops  '  on  my  breast.  I  was  a  combination- 
sandwich.  Two  enterprising  minds  had 
united  their  energies  in  utilizing  my  front 
and  back. 

"  Once  I  narrowly  escaped  becoming  a 
valet  de  chambre.  That  was  after  having 
passed  three  nights  in  Madison  Square 
Park.  An  advertisement  in  the  papers 
caught  my  eye  of  a  lady  wanting  a  man- 


102  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

servant  of  distinguished  appearance  in  a 
first-class  household.  I  called  at  once  at 
the  house  (which  was  indeed  set  up  in  the 
most  elegant  style)  and  proffered  my  ser- 
vices. The  lady  seemed  greatly  pleased 
with  my  appearance,  and  the  thing  was  all 
settled  between  us,  w^hen  she  remarked : 
*  Of  course  you  will  have  to  shave  your 
whiskers  and  mustache ;  it  is  a  rule  of  my 
house.'  The  blood  shot  up  irfto  my  face 
at  these  words.  All  of  a  sudden  I  became 
painfully  aware  of  the  position  I  was 
about  to  accept,  with  all  the  consequences 
it  involved.  I  declined,  and  went  back  to 
the  park. 

**  And  yet,  as  you  see,  I  have  not  es- 
caped my  fate.  Instead  of  serving  one,  I 
serve  many.  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  my 
dear  fellow,  a  European  aristocrat  in  this 
country  is  about  the  most  useless  being 
who  ever  trod  the  earth,  unless  he  is  rich. 
What  have  I  ever  learned  that  might  have 
been  of  any  use  to  me  in  this  country? 
Except  the  art  of  spending  money,  nothing 
thoroughly.     The  only  knowledge  I  could 


THE  ''HERE  BARONr  1 03 

put  to  profit  here  was  that  of  a  servant's 
or  a  waiter's  duties,  which  I  had  formerly 
claimed  from  others.  I  know  exactly  the 
way  in  which  a  table-service  must  be  laid 
out.  The  icing  of  champagne  has  no 
mysteries  for  me.  I  know  the  names  of 
all  the  dishes  existing  in  the  world,  and 
of  all  the  wines  worth  drinking.  I  speak 
German,  French,  and  English,  without  men- 
tioning the  Russian  language,  which  is  not 
likely  to  prove  of  great  use  in  this  line  of 
business ;  with  all  these  accomplishments, 
am  I  not  a  waiter  born  and  bred?  I  tell 
you,  my  friend,  a  ruined  nobleman  coming 
to  America  is  predestined  to  become  a 
kellner  ! 

**  Do  you  know  what  was  the  most 
humiliating  and  horrible  sensation  I  ever 
experienced  in  my  life?  It  was  the  first 
time  I  heard  a  whistle  and  a  '  Pst !  '  and 
realized  the  fact  that  both  sounds  were 
intended  for  me,  and  that  I  had  to  obey 
them.  You  may  laugh  at  me,  my  dear 
fellow,  but  I  tell  you  the  idea  of  being 
whistled  for  like  a  domestic  animal  is  any- 


104  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

thing  but  enjoyable  so  long  as  a  man  is 
not  accustomed  to  it." 

''  Poor  VValdheim  !  "  I  exclaimed,  laugh- 
ing in  spite  of  myself  at  the  serio-comic 
good-humor  with  which  he  told  me  all  his 
woes.  *'  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  what 
became  of  Valentine  in  all  this  odyssey.'* 

''  Oh  !  she  is  a  Parisian ;  and  Parisian  wo- 
men are  like  cats, —  they  always  fall  on  their 
feet.  The  first  weeks  of  her  stay  here  all 
went  on  smoothly.  When  I  had  finally 
got  down  to  my  last  five  hundred  francs  I 
gave  them  to  the  girl,  and  said,  '  My  dear 
Valentine,  the  best  you  can  do  now  is  to 
return  to  Paris ; '  but  she  refused  peremp- 
torily, saying  that  she  would  never  leave 
me.  Yet  I  w^as  obliged  to  leave  her  to 
seek  for  work,  for  I  was  penniless.  It  w^as 
then  that  I  passed  a  season  on  the  Jersey 
farm  as  *  Jimmy.'  While  there  I  received  a 
letter  from  Valentine,  in  which,  after  glow- 
ing protestations  of  love  and  fidelity,  she 
announced  to  me  her  approaching  mar- 
riage with  that  man  Schmittberger,  whose 
offer,  she  said,  she  had  accepted  only  for 


THE   '' HERR  BARONS  105 

my  sake  !  As  soon  as  they  were  married, 
she  added,  she  would  procure  me  a  suitable 
position  in  the  office  of  the  brewery,  of 
which  her  bridegroom  was  head  clerk,  and 
then  I  could  live  happy  forevermore,  — 
emphasizing  the  words  with  three  dashes  ! 
As  you  may  imagine,  I  respectfully  declined 
this  tempting  offer,  and  have  never  seen 
Mrs.  Schmittberger  since." 

**  Requiescat  in  pace  !  "  I  exclaimed, 
raising  my  glass.  **  But  to  return  to  your 
own  affairs.  Is  it  possible  that  you  have 
got  used  to  this  business?" 

^*  My  dear  fellow,  honestly  and  truly, 
yes  !  Behold  the  decay  of  a  great  charac- 
ter !  This  business  is  not  so  bad  after  all. 
I  am  excellently  paid,  and  in  the  two  years 
during  which  I  have  worn  this  mask  of 
*  Ernest'  (this  is  the  name  I  bear  in  the 
profession),  I  have  saved  a  good  deal  of 
money." 

*^  So  you  are  content  with  your  lot?"  I 
said. 

''Content?  —  no;  but  I  take  things  as 
they  are,  without  making  them  worse." 


I06  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

'^  Well,  my  dear  Waldheim,  I  am  heartily- 
glad  to  have  met  you/'  I  said,  rising  and 
shaking  him  by  the  hand.  ''  I  hope  to  see 
you  again  soon.  Now  it  is  late,  time  for 
both  of  us  to  go  to  sleep/' 

We  took  leave  of  one  another  like  old 
friends,  with  mutual  promises  to  meet  often. 

Some  three  weeks  after  our  first  meet- 
ing, however,  I  was  sent  on  newspaper 
business  to  South  Carolina,  and  remained 
there  over  three  months.  When  I  re- 
turned, the  '^Herr  Baron"  had  left  H. 
Gorrs'  little  wirthschafty  and  had  gone, — 
whither,  no  one  knew. 

A  year  passed  without  my  hearing  any- 
thing of  Waldheim.  A  few  days  ago  I 
caught  sight  by  chance  of  a  copy  of  the 
**  Saratoga  Advertiser,"  in  which  I  noticed 
the  announcement  of  the  opening  of  a  new 
*'  first-class  hotel"  in  that  fashionable  water- 
ing-place. After  the  usual  flourishes  of 
rhetoric,  promising  the  ''  distinguished 
traveller"  all  the  advantages  of  a  diminu- 
tive paradise  on  earth,  I  read  the  following 
words :  — 


THE   ''  HERR  BARONS  lOJ 

"The  manager,  M.  Ernest,  will  devote  all 
his  energies  and  extensive  experience  in 
hotel  business  to  the  direction  of  this  new 
and  vast  enterprise/' 

There  was  no  doubt  possible ;  this  must 
be  the  *^  Herr  Baron/'  I  wrote  to  him,  and 
received  a  jubilant  reply;  his  hotel  was 
thriving,  and  fast  becoming  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  haunts  of  the  place. 

And  thus  Heinrich  Kurd,  Count  von 
VValdheim,  the  brilliant  Parisian  viveiiry 
son  of  the  ex-grand  marshal  of  the  nobility 
of  Livonia,  some  of  whose  forefathers  had 
shed  their  blood  in  the  Crusades,  others 
of  whom  had  at  one  time  aspired  to  the 
throne  of  the  German  Empire,  became  the 
manager  of  a  thriving  hotel  at  Saratoga. 


OUR    NIHILIST, 


OUR  NIHILIST. 

HE  work  at  the  office  of  the  ''  New 
York  Town  Crier  "  was  particularly 
brisk  on  a  sultry  night  in  May  of  the 
year  1879.  Important  news  had  come  in 
from  different  parts  of  the  world,  —  includ- 
ing Baxter  Street  and  the  Five  Points, 
whereto  an  exploring  party  of  enterprising 
reporters  had  been  despatched  on  the  pre- 
ceding day  to  count  the  number  of  dead 
cats  lying  on  the  pavement  and  to  analyze 
the  perfume  emanating  from  unemptied 
ash-barrels.  The  expedition  had  just  re- 
turned, and  was  preparing  an  elaborate 
report,  of  which  the  various  head-lines 
alone  were  to  occupy  over  half  a  column. 
Moreover,   a    stenographic    account    had 


112  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

come  in  by  telegraph  of  all  (including 
profane  language)  General  Grant  had  ut- 
tered the  day  before  on  some  wild  island 
of  the  Pacific  Ocean  with  a  very  queer 
name,  the  exact  position  of  which  it  re- 
quired the  combined  wisdom  of  all  the 
editor's  staff  and  numerous  cyclopaedias 
to  ascertain.  A  "•  cable  special  "  from  the 
Paris  correspondent,  containing  but  the 
words,  ^*  Last  week  deuced  bore,"  was 
about  to  be  transformed  into  two  columns 
of  small  type  by  a  young  man  specially 
engaged  for  the  purpose  who  had  ac- 
quired a  vast  reputation  from  the  inesti- 
mable faculty  he  possessed  of  producing 
in  the  shortest  lapse  of  time  possible  any 
amount  of  '*  copy."  Last,  not  least,  an 
event  of  the  utmost  importance,  on  the 
issue  of  which  the  national  honor  of  the 
people  of  the  United  States  depended, 
was  in  process  of  development  in  Gil- 
more's  Garden.  An  Englishman  and  an 
American  were  deciding  between  them 
the  thrilling  question  whose  legs  and  lungs 
were    the    strongest.     In    regard    to    the 


OUR  NIHILIST.  113 

latter  topic,  the  "  Town  Crier  '*  was  next 
day  to  come  out  with  a  tremendous  sen- 
sation, —  a  reporter  had  counted  the  drops 
of  perspiration  which  had  fallen  from  the 
brow  of  each  '*  champion"  during  each 
**  lap."  The  complicated  mathematical 
calculations  which  this  work  necessitated, 
together  with  the  account  of  the  match 
itself,  would  fill  two  pages  of  the  paper. 

It  is  not  more  than  might  have  been 
expected  that  on  such  a  night  as  this,  out- 
side visitors  were  not  welcome  at  the 
office.  Accordingly,  when  a  young  man 
presented  himself  in  the  narrow  and  some- 
what dingy  waiting-room  reserved  for 
visitors  at  the  entrance  to  the  editorial 
sanctum,  the  old  janitor  peremptorily  re- 
fused to  take  in  even  the  card  of  the 
former,  saying  that  he  had  been  positively 
forbidden  to  disturb  the  editors  in  any 
manner. 

**  But,  my  dear  man,"  expostulated  the 
visitor  in  a  somewhat  haughty  tone  and 
with  a  marked  foreign  accent,  *^  I  am  the 
bearer     of    a    special     message     for    Mr. 

8 


114  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

O'Bragan'*  (such  was  the  name  of  the 
editor-in-chief).  *^At  least  take  to  him 
this  letter,  which  is  from  the  St.  Peters- 
burg correspondent  of  the  ^  Town  Crier ; ' 
it  is  of  the  utmost  importance." 

This  the  old  Cerberus  consented  to  do, 
and  disappeared  behind  the  mysterious 
door.  Left  alone,  the  stranger  looked 
about  him,  not  without  a  certain  curi- 
osity. 

'*  This  then,"  he  muttered  in  German,  *'  is 
the  palace  of  that  mysterious  power  which, 
being  the  voice  of  the  people,  rules  the 
people.  Well,  I  imagined  it  otherwise. 
However,  as  it  is,  I  will  try  and  make  the 
best  of  it." 

At  this  moment  the  old  janitor  returned  ; 
and  holding  the  door  open  for  the  young 
man  to  enter,  said  to  him  with  that  su- 
preme indifference  which  a  constant 
intercourse  with  journalists  naturally 
engenders, — 

''  Mr.  O'Bragan  will  see  you,  sir.  Please 
step  in." 

A  moment  later  the  visitor  was  closeted 


OUR   NIHILIST,  115 

with  the  '*  chief"  in  the  private  office  of 
the  latter. 

'*  I  infer  from  the  letter  of  Mr.  Patrick 
Flanharty,  our  St.  Petersburg  correspon- 
dent," began  Mr.  O'Bragan,  "  that  you  can 
give  us  valuable  information  in  regard  to 
the  present  Nihilist  movement  in  Russia." 

''  It  is  so,"  responded  the  stranger  in  a 
solemn  voice.  *^  I  am  the  plenipotentiary 
of  the  Russian  Central  Revolutionary  Com- 
mittee for  the  United  States.  Here  are 
my  credentials." 

Saying  which,  the  young  man  drew  from 
his  breast-pocket  a  large  paper,  which  he 
unfolded,  displaying  a  diploma,  printed  in 
Russian  and  French,  stating  that  the  bearer, 
Ivan  Sapeur,  was  specially  recommended  to 
all  free  nations  and  their  representatives 
as  an  emissary  of  the  Russian  Central 
Revolutionary  Committee,  which  Commit- 
tee was  fighting  for  the  liberty  of  its  own 
nation.  The  diploma  was  surmounted 
with  a  flaring  red  flag  and  a  vignette  rep- 
resenting a  cheerful  combination  of  axes, 
poniards,  revolvers,  and  human  skulls. 


Il6  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

The  sight  of  this  document  evidently 
impressed  Mr.  O'Bragan  deeply,  the  more 
so  as  he  was  unable  to  understand 
one  word  of  either  of  the  languages 
it  was  printed  in.  He  folded  the  paper 
carefully,  and  returned  it  to  the  plenipo- 
tentiary. 

*'Well,  sir,''  continued  the  chief  in  a 
business-like  tone,  "  I  am  somewhat  short 
of  time  to-night.  Will  you  please  give  an 
account  in  a  few  words,  for  the  '  Town 
Crier,'  of  the  present  state  of  the  Nihilist 
order  in  Russia,  its  origin  and  develop- 
ment, together,  if  possible,  with  a  short 
epitome  of  Russian  history,  with  a  few 
sprightly  anecdotes  about  Peter  the  Great, 
Siberian  mines,  and  the  like." 

Mr.  Ivan  Sapeur  looked  for  a  moment 
bewildered  by  the  variety  of  information 
required  from  him,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
He  then  smiled  complacently,  and  said,  — 
*'  I  write  English  fluently,  and  can  put 
down  the  required  notes  in  half  an  hour. 
Before  doing  it,  however,  let  me  ask  you  a 
favor,  —  a   few  letters  of  introduction   to 


OUR   NIHILIST.  117 

distinguished  families  in  the  city.  For  the 
work  I  have  to  do  of  gaining  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  American  people  for  the  cause 
of  Russian  liberty,  some  personal  connec- 
tions with  the  leading  members  of  society 
are  absolutely  necessary.  You  can  do  that 
without  fear,  Mr.  O'Bragan.  If  even  the  let- 
ter of  my  friend  Patrick  Flanharty  should 
not  suffice  to  assure  you  of  my  respecta- 
bility, —  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  does  suf- 
fice,—  a  few  weeks  hence,  when  coming 
events  shall  allow  me  to  speak  openly,  you 
will  have  ample  opportunity  to  convince 
yourself  of  the  fact  that  Russia  has  sent  to 
your  great  country  a  representative  of  one 
of  its  first  and  noblest  families." 

Vividly  impressed  by  the  dignified  de- 
meanor of  the  stranger,  which  betrayed 
at  first  sight  the  true-born  aristocrat,  Mr. 
O'Bragan  promised  to  give  him  the  letters 
he  asked  for;  whereupon  the  emissary 
went  to  work  compiling  the  required  '*  in- 
terview "  about  things  in  general  in  Russia, 
while  the  editor  prepared  the  letters.  An 
hour  later,  Ivan  Sapeur  had  delivered  his 


Il8  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

manuscript,  and  with  the  letters  in  his 
pocket  left  the  office  of  the  ''Town  Crier," 
taking  an  entirely  easterly  direction,  towards 
Franklin  Square  and  Roosevelt  Street.  In 
this  neighborhood,  in  a  very  dingy  and  ill- 
famed  ''  hotel,''  the  distinguished  represen- 
tative of  one  of  the  noblest  families  of 
Russia  had  taken  up  his  abode.  On  reach- 
ing his  home,  he  found  it  still  alive  with 
boisterous  merriment.  The  parlor  was  full 
of  people.  The  noble  stranger  entered  it, 
and  was  immediately  accosted  by  one  of 
the  ladies  present,  — 

''You  are  late  to-night.  Jack;  hang  it 
all!  what  has  kept  you  so  long?  The 
boys  are  restless  without  music.  Sit  down, 
and  be  quick  about  it !  '' 

Whereupon  the  noble  Ivan  complied,  — 
doubtless  out  of  inborn  gallantry.  He  sat 
down  to  the  old  broken  piano  which  stood 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  began  to 
drum  a  waltz  in  that  careless,  slovenly 
manner  peculiar  to  all  artists  of  this  par- 
ticular school. 


OUR  NIHILIST.  119 

'^  Oh,  Mr.  Sapeur,  tell  me  more  about 
the  poor,  dear,  miserable  wretches !  "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Lucy  in  her  own  sweet, 
gushing  way.  Miss  Lucy  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Mr.  Frederick  B.  Bonnard,  a  busi- 
ness man  of  considerable  fortune,  to  whom 
was  addressed  one  of  the  letters  the  editor- 
in-chief  of  the  *^  Town  Crier ''  had  given 
to  the  illustrious  fugitive.  Miss  Lucy  was 
not  pretty,  neither  was  she  very  young; 
but  she  certainly  was  very  gushing,  and 
altogether  *'  interesting,*'  and  the  longer 
she  lived,  and  the  more  she  realized  the 
fact  that  one  man  after  another  around 
her  dropped  into  Hymen's  lap  without 
even  looking  at  her,  the  more  gushing  and 
*'  interesting ''  she  became.  Thus  far,  how- 
ever, she  had  gushed  in  vain. 

**  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Sapeur,  do  tell  me  more 
about  those  heroic,  poor,  unfortunate  mar- 
tyrs, the  Nihilists !  "  she  repeated  in  a  sup- 
plicating tone,  folding  her  hands  on  the 
young  man's  arm. 

For  a  while  he  was  silent,  seemingly 
overcome  by  the  torrent  of  feeling  which 


I20  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS, 

invaded  his  heart.  Then  he  answered  in 
a  low  tone,  a  rapturous  smile  hovering 
about  his  lips,  — 

**  You  have  said  *  dear  Mr.  Sapeur !  * 
Oh,  could  it  be  true !  Could  I  indeed 
hope  to  have  found  a  friend  in  you,  what 
an  unutterable  joy  it  would  be  for  a  poor 
exile  like  me  !  " 

He  took  her  hand,  which  she  blushingly 
abandoned  to  his  grasp,  and  drew  it  to  his 
lips.  This  touching  scene  took  place  in 
Mr.  Bonnard's  elegant  parlor,  after  a  late 
dinner  to  which  the  exile  had  been  invited. 
He  had  in  a  few  weeks  become  very  inti- 
mate at  the  house.  During  his  second  or 
third  visit  he  had  adroitly  dropped  a  few 
hints  about  his  distinguished  parentage  in 
Russia.  His  elegant  manners,  together 
with  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  which 
surrounded  him,  exercised  a  powerful 
charm  even  on  Mr.  Bonnard  himself,  who, 
though  a  practical  business  man,  was  not 
insensible  to  the  honor  of  receiving  a 
**  Russian  prince "  at  his  house.  As  for 
Miss  Lucy,  she  was  from  the  very  first  day 


OUR   NIHILIST,  121 

captivated  by  the  elegance,  the  good 
looks,  and  the  misfortunes  of  this  young 
and  interesting  representative  of  Nihilism. 
To  her  he  had  confided  under  an  oath  of 
secrecy  his  true  name, —  Count  Adlerberg, 
a  nephew  of  the  minister  of  the  Imperial 
Court  of  Russia,  and  a  son  of  the  Czar's 
most  intimate  friend. 

"  Can  you  doubt  of  my  friendship,  dear 
Count?"  whispered  Miss  Lucy,  while  the 
illustrious  exile  still  held  her  hand.  '^  Could 
you  have  heard  how  I  answered  my  father's 
warning  this  morning !  " 

''Your  father's  warning!  Did  he  warn 
you  against  me?  " 

*'Well,  no,  not  directly.  At  least  he 
only  repeated  what  the  Russian  consul 
had  told  him, —  that  he,  the  consul,  knew 
nothing  about  a  Mr.  Sapeur,  and  that 
he  supposed  the  latter  to  be  an  obscure 
adventurer.'* 

The  exile  sprang  from  his  seat,  a  prey 
to  an  irrepressible  agitation. 

''  Poor  man  !  "  he  whispered.  ''  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  save  him 


122  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

from  the  avenging  arm  of  my  comrade. 
How  imprudent  it  was !  *' 

"Whom  do  you  mean?'*  asked  Miss 
Lucy,  considerably  bewildered. 

*'The  consul/'  answered  Ivan,  sighing 
heavily.  ''  By  slandering  me  he  risks  his 
life.  Our  awful  Committee  strikes  surely 
and  quickly !  " 

Miss  Lucy  shuddered. 

**  Fear  not,  Lucy !  "  exclaimed  the  exile 
rapturously.  *'  Fear  not  that  my  —  or  may 
I  say  our? — happiness  should  be  over- 
shadowed by  a  bloody  deed.  Farewell !  I 
will  hasten  home  to  take  all  possible  meas- 
ures to  save  that  poor  blinded  official. 
Farewell,  farewell,  Lucy !  " 

The  maiden  answered  not  a  w^ord ;  but 
as  the  young  man  took  her  hand  she 
bowed  her  head  down  on  his  breast,  his 
lips  touched  her  forehead,  and  his  arms 
encircled  her  slender  v/aist. 

Two  days  later  there  appeared  in  the 
'^  New  York  Town  Crier "  the  following 
warning  addressed  to  the  Russian  consul : 


OUR  NIHILIST.  123 

C.  R.  R.  C.i 

The  arm  of  the  avenger  is  ready  to  strike  ! 
Beware  ! 

You  K.,  Russian  consul-general,  have  dared  to 
slander  one  of  our  friends,  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished patriots  Russia  possesses.     Beware  ! 

The  avenger  is  nigh  at  hand.  If  you  dare 
repeat  your  slander,  the  blow  shall  fall  and  crush 
you  ! 

C.  R.  R.  C,  American  Branch. 

New  York,  May  20,  1879. 

When  Mr.  Sapeur  made  his  appearance 
at  Mr.  Bonnard's  house  the  same  evening, 
Miss  Lucy  came  to  meet  him,  trembling 
and  all  in  a  flutter. 

**  Oh,  dear  me  !  "  she  exclaimed,  ''  have 
you  read  that  awful  thing  in  to-day's 
*  Town  Crier '  ?  Your  prediction  has  been 
fulfilled  with  terrible  swiftness  !  " 

The  young  man  patted  her  soothingly 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Fear  not,  my  dear,  noble  Lucy,"  he 
said ;    '*  by  my  interference  the    man    has 

1  Central  Russian  Revolutionary  Committee. 


124  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

been  saved  from  instant  death.  If  he 
keeps  quiet  now,  his  hfe  is  saved/' 

*'  Oh,  how  noble,  how  great  you  are  !  '' 

The  interview  between  the  young  people 
was  that  night  longer  and  more  confidential 
than  usual.  While  Mr.  Bonnard  dozed  in 
his  arm-chair  after  dinner,  a  whispered  con- 
ference, seemingly  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance, took  place,  at  the  close  of  which  the 
young  exile  took  leave  in  the  usual  affec- 
tionate manner.  Miss  Lucy  accompanied 
him  to  the  street-door. 

**  To-morrow  at  two,  my  love,  my  dear- 
est !  '*  he  whispered,  giving  her  a  parting 
kiss. 

The  next  day  at  the  appointed  hour 
a  coupe  stopped  at  Mr.  Bonnard's.  Mr. 
Sapeur  emerged  from  it.  Mr.  Bonnard 
was,  as  might  have  been  expected,  not  at 
home ;  but  Miss  Lucy  was  there,  with  her 
bonnet  on,  ready  for  her  promised  drive. 
The  hopeful  pair  stepped  into  the  carriage, 
which  drove  off  rapidly  —  not  so  rapidly, 
however,  as  to  get  out  of  sight  of  another 
carriage     which     followed     Mr.     Sapeur's 


OUR    NIHILIST.  125 

coupe  at  some  distance,  and  contained 
three  gentlemen,  one  of  whom,  doubtless 
for  the  sake  of  fresh  air,  had  taken  a  seat 
on  the  box  by  the  coachman's  side. 

An  hour  later  Mr.  Sapeur's  coupe  re- 
turned to  the  door  of  the  Bonnards'  house. 
The  young  man  helped  Miss  Lucy  out,  and 
entered  the  house  with  her.  They  had 
barely  had  time,  however,  to  step  into  the 
parlor  when  the  door-bell  again  resounded, 
and  on  the  servant  opening  it  three  gentle- 
men came  in  and  asked  to  see  Mr.  Sapeur. 
Hearing  his  name,  the  young  man  became 
somewhat  pale  ;  but  quickly  recovering  his 
composure,  he  opened  the  parlor  door,  and 
was  about  to  ask  what  the  gentlemen 
wanted,  when,  on  perceiving  the  face  of 
one  of  them,  he  suddenly  grew  ashy  pale 
and  staggered  back  into  the  room,  while 
the  man  who  had  so  frightened  him  ex- 
claimed, — 

*^  It  is  he ;  arrest  him  !  " 

One  of  the  other  gentlemen  then  stepped 
forward,  and  addressing  the  noble  fugitive, 
said  in  a  quiet  tone,  — 


126  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS. 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you  and  your 
lady,  Mr.  Herzenstein,  alias  Sapeur,  alias 
Count  Adlerberg;  but  we  have  looked 
for  you  so  long  that  you  really  must  fol- 
low us  now.  I  arrest  you  on  the  charge 
of  forgery,  committed  to  the  amount  of 
ten  thousand  roubles,  to  the  detriment  of 
the  Commercial  Bank  of  Moscow.  Here 
is  the  warrant.'' 

At  this  moment  a  piercing  cry  rang 
through  the  room,  and  Miss  Lucy,  ex- 
claiming, *'  Great  heavens !  he  is  my  hus- 
band," fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

The  illustrious  exile  stood  motionless, 
dumfounded,  seeming  insensible  to  all 
things.  The  police  officer  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  led  him  out  of  the  room,  at 
the  same  time  directing  the  chambermaid, 
whom  the  noise  had  attracted  to  the  door, 
to  attend  to  her  swooning  mistress. 

In  the  hall  the  young  man  who  had 
first  recognized  the  prisoner  stepped  up 
to  him,  and  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face  said,  — 

'*  Herzenstein,   it  is   I  who  hunted  you 


OUR   NIHILIST.  127 

down.  You  know  me  well ;  I  am  indeed  a 
member  of  our  secret  organization,  and 
will  never  allow  our  holy  cause  to  be  dis- 
graced by  rascals  such  as  you.'* 

Thereupon  the  party  entered  the  car- 
riage which  waited  at  the  door,  and  drove 
off. 

Curiously  enough,  the  omniscient  and 
ubiquitous  *^  Town  Crier ''  kept  the  pro- 
foundest  silence  about  these  events,  despite 
the  considerable  sensation  they  produced. 
But  the  very  same  day  a  ''  cable  special  '* 
was  despatched  to  Mr.  Patrick  Flanharty  at 
St.  Petersburg,  which,  though  containing 
but  one  single  word,  was  so  explicit  and 
so  powerful  that  we  dare  not  venture  to 
reproduce  it  here. 


A    WRECKED    LIFE. 


A  WRECKED   LIFE. 

EVERAL  months  ago  there  ap- 
peared in  all  the  city  papers  a 
notice  containing  a  rather  strange 
story  about  a  man  having  been  arrested 
on  Sixth  Avenue,  where  he  was  walking 
in  a  state  utterly  incompatible  with  the 
manners  of  modern  civilization.  With  no 
other  dress  but  his  long,  unkempt  hair 
hanging  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  gray 
beard  falling  over  his  chest,  he  had  rushed 
out  in  this  unseemly  condition  from  one 
of  the  by-streets,  crying  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  **  Stella  !  Stella  !  "  As  might  have 
been  expected,  he  was  not  allowed  to  pur- 
sue his  course  farther  than  a  block  or  so, 
when  he  ran  into  the  sheltering  arms  of 
one  of  the  guardians  of  the  public  peace, 


132  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

who,  after  administering  to  this  rebel  child 
of  Nature  a  preparatory  clubbing,  hailed 
a  cab,  pushed  his  patient  in,  pulled  down 
the  blinds,  and  drove  off  rapidly,  before 
even  the  crowd  of  idlers  who  had  already 
gathered  could  realize  what  a  splendid 
opportunity  for  extraordinary  and  utterly 
unprecedented  **  fun "  they  had  missed. 
Upon  investigation,  the  man  who  had  mis- 
taken Sixth  Avenue  for  a  thoroughfare  of 
the  Hottentot  metropolis  proved  to  be  a 
poor  maniac  who  had  lived  for  a  year  in 
a  dark  closet  forming  part  of  a  basement 
room  in  West  Forty-sixth  Street,  in  which 
an  old  ragman  had  his  abode.  Nobody 
seemed  exactly  to  know  who  he  was  or 
where  he  came  from.  The  only  informa- 
tion which  the  papers  gave  was  that  he 
had  been  sent  to  the  City  Hospital,  and 
that  in  his  former  neighborhood  he  was 
known  as  the  **mad  Dutchman."  No  name, 
no  means  of  identification,  could  be  found. 
Why  did  this  story,  which  the  very  next 
day  after  its  publication  was  buried  under 
the  waves  of  public  life  in  the  great  city,  — 


A   WRECKED   LIFE.  133 

that  great,  never-resting  ocean  of  oblivion, 
—  why  did  this  story  impress  me  so  vividly? 
I  know  not.  It  was  certainly  not  the  mys- 
tery in  which  the  whole  afTair  appeared  to 
be  shrouded  which  attracted  my  attention. 
For  what  are  those  petty  mysteries  of  every- 
day life  w^hich  crowd  our  daily  papers  to 
a  professional  journalist? — a  tool  of  his 
profession,  an  '*  item  "  to  be  disposed  of 
as  concisely  as  possible;    nothing  more. 

It  was  that  name,  Stella,  which  the 
poor  idiot  had  shouted  out  in  the  street 
in  his  madness,  which  sounded  familiar  to 
my  ear  and  recalled  in  me  long-forgotten 
memories  of  a  once-dear  friend.  It  was 
more  than  twelve  years  ago,  in  London. 
Things  and  men  were  different  then,  and 
looked,  somehow,  brighter  and  more  hope- 
ful than  now.  Even  the  London  fog  as- 
sumed a  rosy  hue,  viewed  by  the  light 
of  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  and  the  illusions 
of  early  youth.  And  as  I  looked  back 
into  this  long-past  sunshine  there  arose 
in  my  memory  a  face  which  for  me  was  in 
some  way  associated  with  all  those  hopes, 


134  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS. 

dreams,  and  illusions.  George  Nordhoff 
was  indeed  a  bright  fellow.  Though  about 
ten  years  my  senior,  he  was  in  character 
and  disposition  certainly  the  junior  of  the 
two.  He  was  a  scion  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  of  Livonia,  and  held  at  the  time 
the  office  of  second  secretary  of  the  Russian 
embassy  in  London.  I  never  met  a  man 
who  so  unmistakably  seemed  to  have  been 
born  on  the  sunny  side  of  life  as  Nordhoff. 
Not  very  rich,  yet  just  rich  enough  to  be 
able  to  indulge  his  artistic  and  social  tastes ; 
the  universal  favorite  with  young  and  old 
of  both  sexes;  possessing  an  excellent 
physical  constitution,  and  endowed  with 
that  precious  quality  of  the  mind  which 
enables  the  man  always  to  keep  the  ''  golden 
mean  "  in  sentiment,  passion,  and  enjoy- 
ment,—  Nordhoff  was  the  type  of  the  happy 
man.  Somehow  or  other,  his  happiness 
seemed  contagious ;  all  ill-humor  vanished 
at  his  approach :  and  looking  at  his  beam- 
ing, good-natured  face,  it  seemed  impossible 
to  believe  that  such  a  thing  as  tears  could 
exist  in  the  world. 


A   WRECKED  LIFE.  135 

Poor  Nordhoff !  All  this  was  true  till  the 
day  when  Stella  crossed  his  path.  She 
was  an  actress  belonging  to  a  French  opera- 
bouffe  troupe  which  had  given  a  few  per- 
formances in  London.  She  was  neither 
handsome  nor  clever;  her  singing  was  so 
wretched  that  it  could  only  bear  a  compari- 
son with  her  acting:  and  yet  —  who  shall 
ever  be  able  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  love  ? 
Nordhoff  fell  madly  in  love  with  this  second- 
rate  chansonniere.  All  of  a  sudden  he  dis- 
appeared from  the  social  circles  and  haunts 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  visit  together. 
Strange  inconsistency  of  passion !  He 
actually  seemed  to  be  ashamed  of  the  un- 
worthiness  of  his  feeling,  for  he  studiously 
concealed  even  from  me  what  it  was  that 
engrossed  all  his  time  and  energy.  At  last 
the  day  came  when  all  attempts  at  dis- 
simulation were  useless.  Nordhoff  began 
to  neglect  even  his  official  duties,  light  as 
they  were.  The  ambassador,  Baron  Brun- 
now,  had  already  on  several  occasions 
reprimanded  him  in  a  friendly,  fatherly 
manner,   and    Nordhoff  had    promised    to 


136  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

amend;  but  in  vain,  the  passion  devour- 
ing him  was  stronger  than  even  his  sense 
of  honor. 

At  last  the  catastrophe  came.  One  night 
I  awoke  suddenly,  and  found  Nordhoff 
standing  at  my  bedside.  He  held  a  candle 
in  his  hand,  and  by  its  flickering  light  I 
could  see  that  the  appearance  of  the  man 
was  utterly  transformed.  His  face  was 
pale  and  worn,  his  dress  in  disorder,  his 
sunken  eyes  had  an  unsteady,  searching, 
almost  fierce  look  in  them,  like  that  of  a 
hunted  animal. 

"  Get  up  and  help  me  !  "  he  gasped.  "  I 
must  be  off  this  morning  to  America,  or 
I  shall  be  a  dead  man  to-night.  Don't  ask 
me  any  questions,  if  you  still  have  any 
friendship  for  me,  but  lend  me  the  money 
for  the  passage." 

I  had,  indeed,  no  questions  to  ask ;  his 
face  was  answer  enough  to  all.  I  got  up, 
and  we  went  together  to  one  of  those  ben- 
efactors of  the  human  race  for  whom  there 
is  no  difference  between  day  and  night 
when  a  service  can  be  rendered  —  at  lOO 


A   WRECKED   LIFE.  1 37 

per  cent.  On  leaving  the  money-lender, 
Nordhoff  positively  refused  to  let  me  ac- 
company him  farther.  We  took  leave  of 
each  other  on  the  street. 

From  that  time  I  never  heard  any  more 
of  Nordhoff.  His  disappearance  produced 
something  of  a  sensation,  and  was  spoken 
of  and  commented  upon  a  good  deal.  In 
due  time,  however,  the  whole  story  was 
forgotten ;  and  even  I,  it  must  be  owned, 
scarcely  thought  of  Nordhoff  and  his  mis- 
erable love  until  the  name  of  Stella,  which 
I  found  in  the  story  of  the  poor  maniac, 
revived  in  me  old  recollections.  Could  it 
be  possible,  I  thought,  that  it  had  come  to 
this? 

At  all  events,  I  resolved  to  investigate 
the  matter.  At  the  station-house  to  which 
the  maniac  was  first  conveyed,  I  was  in- 
formed that  he  had  been  sent  to  the  City 
Hospital.  I  proceeded  thither  accordingly. 
The  employees  had  no  difficulty  in  remem- 
bering the  case,  and  I  was  directed  to 
bed  No.  302.  A  young  doctor  accom- 
panied me. 


138  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  man  ?  '* 
I  asked  on  the  way. 

**  Appears  to  be  softening  of  the  brain," 
was  the  answer;  *^  he  is  not  hkely  to  hve 
long.     Curious  case   though." 

We  had  by  this  time  reached  the  room 
in  which  No.  302  lay,  and  we  approached 
the  bed.  The  patient  was  lying  closely 
wrapped  up  in  his  blanket,  his  face  turned 
to  the  wall,  either  sleeping  or  insensible. 

'^  Do  you  want  to  see  his  face?  "  asked 
the  doctor;  and  before  I  was  able  to 
motion  him  not  to  disturb  the  patient, 
the  latter  turned  suddenly,  and  with  a 
blank  stare  exclaimed :  **  Who  is  there  ?  — 
Stella?" 

His  whole  figure,  as  he  leaned  heavily 
on*  his  elbow,  appeared  emaciated  and 
worn  to  a  skeleton;  his  hair  had  been 
cut  short,  showing  painfully  every  protrud- 
ing eminence  of  the  skull ;  his  long  beard 
was  gray  and  wild ;  the  vacant  stare  of  his 
large,  deeply  sunken  gray  eyes  gave  to  the 
whole  face  an  expression  of  idiocy  which 
rendered  the  features  nearly  unrecogniza- 


A   WRECKED  LIFE,  139 

ble :  and  yet,  notwithstanding  all  this  dread- 
ful change,  I  knew  the  man  instantly. 

*'Nordhoff!  "  I  cried,  bending  over  him 
and  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  **  do 
you  know  me? '' 

A  gleam  of  intelligence  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  pass  over  his  face,  but  only  for 
a  moment.  Then  again  the  same  vacant 
expression  settled  on  it,  and  he  muttered : 
''  Who  is  there?     Is  it  Stella?  '' 

There  was  no  hope.  Love  —  the  truest, 
most  ardent,  most  passionate  love  a  man 
is  capable  of — had  done  its  work  here  to 
the  end. 


II. 

By  degrees,  by  questioning  the  ragman 
in  whose  miserable  dwelling  Nordhoff  had 
found  a  shelter,  the  neighbors,  and  some  of 
the  associates  of  his  former  life,  I  succeeded 
in  tracing  the  history  of  the  unhappy  man 
back  to  the  time  when  he  had  landed  at 
New  York  with  his  wife,  —  for  he  had, 
before  starting,  married  that  French  girl. 


I40  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS, 

He  had  always  been  a  lucky  man,  and 
it  seemed  at  first  that  his  good  fortune  had 
accompanied  him  over  the  ocean.  He 
found  lucrative  employment  at  the  office 
of  a  rich  broker,  a  Polish  Jew  who  had 
formerly  been  a  business  agent  of  Nord- 
hoff's  father  in  a  small  way,  and  was  now 
proud  and  happy  to  give  a  lift  to  the 
son.  All  went  on  smoothly  enough  for  a 
year,  until  a  French  opera-bouffe  com- 
pany visited  New  York.  Among  the  sing- 
ers belonging  to  the  latter,  Stella  found 
some  former  acquaintances.  She  went  to 
see  them,  and  the  demon  of  the  stage 
seized  again  on  her.  Despite  the  earn- 
est entreaties  of  her  husband,  she  passed 
all  her  evenings  and  part  of  her  nights 
at  the  theatre  in  company  with  some 
of  the  wildest  Bohemians  of  the  troupe. 
Among  these  the  women  were  all  very 
elegant,  and  covered  with  jewels  they  were 
proud  of,  which  they  boastingly  showed  to 
Stella. 

**  What  is  the  use  of  your  having  mar- 
ried that  fellow,"  one  of  those  plain-spoken 


A   WRECKED  LIFE.  141 

**  ladies "  exclaimed,  "  if  he  is  unable  to 
give  you  even  a  decent  outfit?" 

This  taunt  was  not  forgotten  by  Stella. 
She  loved  Nordhoff  in  her  way ;  but  from 
that  moment  the  notion  settled  in  her  mind 
that  somehow  he  did  not  treat  her  as  he 
ought  and  as  she  had  a  right  to  expect. 

*^  I  have  given  up  for  him  all  my  pros- 
pects/' she  thought ;  ''  and  now  I  must  cook 
his  dinner  for  him.     It 's  shameful !  " 

For  all  he  had  given  up  for  her  she 
seemed  to  be  utterly  blind. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  woman 
openly  accused  her  husband  of  neglect- 
ing her. 

*^  You  make  lots  of  money,"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears,  '^  and  I  have  not  a  de- 
cent dress  to  put  on.  I  see  it  all ;  you  do 
not  love  me  any  more !  " 

Poor  Nordhoff  tried  hard  to  satisfy  his 
wife's  most  extravagant  wishes.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  office  work  he  succeeded  in 
getting  night  employment  on  one  of  the 
great  newspapers  of  the  city.  For  a  year 
he  worked  like  a  galley-slave,  earning  about 


142  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

five  thousand  dollars.  But  what  was  this 
sum  to  a  woman  used  to  the  extravagances 
of  Parisian  fast  life?  Scenes  of  peevish, 
worrying  complaints  became  on  her  part 
daily  more  frequent.  Nordhoff  was  com- 
paratively happy  only  while  at  work,  and 
he  actually  came  to  dread  the  moment 
he  had  to  go  home.  And  still  he  loved 
her  with  a  mad,  clinging  passion,  against 
which  all  the  dictates  of  reason  remained 
powerless. 

One  summer  evening  after  dark  he  was 
taking  her  out  for  a  walk  on  Broadway. 
As  they  passed  the  doorway  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel  the  throng  separated  them 
for  a  moment,  Nordhoff  remaining  a  few 
paces  behind.  At  that  instant  he  heard 
an  elegantly  dressed  man  who -had  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  hotel  hall  accost 
his  wife  in  a  familiar  voice, — 

''  Hallo,  Stella !     Be  there  to-night.^' 

Nordhoff  sprang  forward,  and  seizing  the 

man  by  the  arm,  exclaimed:   *'This  lady 

is  my  wife,  sir  !     Who  are  you  ?  "     The  man 

thus  accosted  seemed   at  first  inclined  to 


A   WRECKED   LIFE,  1 43 

resent  the  action  as  well  as  the  words,  as 
he  was  much  taller  and  stronger  than  Nord- 
hoff ;  but  as  he  looked  down  on  the  enraged 
husband  his  expression  suddenly  changed. 
He  cast  one  more  glance  at  Stella,  and  then, 
bowing  courteously  to  Nordhofif,  said,  — 

**  Excuse  me !  I  regret  my  mistake 
most  sincerely.  I  am  short-sighted,  and 
have  mistaken  your  wife  for  a  —  a  wo- 
man whose  name  I  dare  not  even  men- 
tion in  the  presence  of  a  lady  whose 
husband  is  a  gentleman.  Once  more, 
excuse   me!'* 

The  stranger  walked  away,  leaving  Nord- 
hofif in  a  fearful  state  of  excitement,  uncer- 
tainty, and  dread  of  something,  the  horror 
of  which  he  could  scarcely  fathom.  Seiz- 
ing his  wife's  arm  with  an  iron  grip,  he  led 
her  home  without  uttering  a  word  or  heed- 
ing her  lamentations  about  his  *^  brutality.'* 
Neither  did  he  ask  her  any  questions  when 
they  reached  home.  He  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  as  if  with  terror.  At 
length,  mastering  his  emotion,  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  hoarse  whisper, — 


144  MISFITS  AND   REMNANTS, 

*'  Tell  me  where  you  have  seen  that 
man !  " 

''  Did  not  he  tell  you  himself  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake?'*  was  the  indignant 
reply. 

But  Nordhoff's  suspicion,  once  aroused, 
was  not  so  easily  to  be  allayed.  He 
pressed  Stella  with  questions,  and  there 
was  an  expression  in  his  eyes,  riveted  on 
her,  that  somehow  awed  her  into  a  par- 
tial avowal.  She  told  him  she  had  met 
that  gentleman  at  a  cafe  in  Sixth  Avenue, 
"  a  very  decent  place,"  she  averred,  where 
she  had  been  but  once  to  eat  some  ice- 
cream. Nordhoff  pressed  her  no  further, 
but  resolved  to  watch  her.  One  night, 
about  a  week  later,  instead  of  going  to 
the  office  of  his  journal,  he  remained  con- 
cealed behind  a  corner  of  the  street  he 
dwelt  in,  whence  he  could  have  a  full  view 
of  his  house.  He  had  been  waiting  scarcely 
half  an  hour  when  he  saw  his  wife  come 
out  of  the  house,  and,  after  looking  aboirt 
her  carefully,  hail  a  car  and  drive  away. 
Resolved  to  have  done  once  for  all  with 


A   WRECKED   LIFE.  1 45 

his  suspicions,  Nordhoff  followed  the  car  on 
foot.  He  ran  thus  for  over  a  mile,  panting 
for  breath,  the  perspiration  rolling  in  large 
drops  from  his  forehead.  At  length  the 
car  stopped  and  Stella  alighted.  She 
crossed  the  street  rapidly  and  entered  an 
*^  establishment,"  over  the  entrance  of  which 
Nordhoff  read  the  words,  — 

CONCERT    HALL.      ENTRANCE    FREE! 
Beautiful  Barmaids  in  Attendance  ! 

Half  mad  with  rage  and  misery,  he 
pushed  the  door  open,  entered,  walked 
straight  to  the  table  at  which  he  saw 
Stella  sitting,  and  took  a  chair.  The 
woman  became  pale  as  death,  and  was 
about  to  run  away;  but  Nordhoff  held 
her  fast. 

'^  You  need  not  fear  me,"  he  said  in  an 
apparently  calm  tone ;  *'  I  shall  not  inter- 
fere with  you  any  longer.     Good-by !  " 

Saying  which,  he  rose,  and  walked  out 
of  the  room.  Whither  he  went  that  night 
no  one  knows.  He  simply  disappeared, 
as  so  many  people  disappear  in  our  great 

10 


146  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

metropolis.  His  name  was  added  to  the 
list  of  the  '*  missing,"  and  a  few  days  later 
he  was  forgotten. 

A  week  after  the  meeting  at  the  concert- 
hall  a  policeman  picked  up  in  one  of  the 
most  disreputable   by-streets   of  the  west 
side   a  man    lying   in   the    gutter,   appar- 
ently in   a  state   of  drunken   insensibility. 
Before  the  judge  the  man  was  unable  to 
give  any  name,  and  so  was  sent  for  ninety 
days'    incognito  to   the   Island.     He  must 
have  been  very  drunk  indeed,  for  during 
all  these  ninety  days  he  did  not  recover 
his  senses,  and  remained  in  a  state  of  phy- 
sical and  moral  lethargy,  utterly  indifferent 
to  all  surroundings.     In  due  time  he  was 
released,   and    came    back   to    New  York. 
Wandering  listlessly  through  the  streets  in 
his  absent,  unconscious  way,  he  came  upon 
an  old  ragman  who  was  bending  under  the 
load  of  a  bag  by  far  exceeding  his  strength. 
The  released  prisoner  offered  to  help  him, 
took  the  bag  on  his  shoulders,  carried  it 
to  the  old  man's  home,  and  after  deposit- 
ing his  load   in  the   middle  of  the  dingy 


A   WRECKED  LIFE.  147 

basement-room,  sat  down  on  it  and  smiled 
blandly  in  the  old  man's  face.  Wise  po- 
litical economists  call  poor  men  ^'  danger- 
ous and  ill-natured."  Perhaps  this  was  the 
reason  why  the  old  ragman,  who  certainly 
had  always  belonged  to  the  poorest  of  the 
poor,  had  pity  on  this  miserable  specimen 
of  humanity  which  had  followed  him  into 
his  den,  and  let  him  remain  where  he  was. 
During  the  day  the  poor,  harmless  idiot 
helped  the  old  man  in  his  work.  At  night 
he  lay  down  on  the  rags  he  had  gathered 
during  the  day. 

So  this  strange  pair  lived  on  for  nearly  a 
year.  Suddenly  the  sick  man  seemed  to 
grow  worse.  He  became  restless,  refused 
resolutely  to  leave  his  couch,  and  at  night 
screamed  and  cried  and  talked  all  sorts  of 
nonsense.  A  few  days  later,  precisely  on 
the  anniversary  of  Nordhoff 's  parting  from 
Stella,  the  ragman's  weak-minded  comrade 
executed  that  extraordinary  freak  which 
again  brought  him  into  collision  with  the 
police  authorities,  who  had  him  conveyed 
to  the  City  Hospital. 


148  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

There  he  lay  now,  —  the  miserable 
wreck  of  the  brilliant  Nordhoff.  I  visited 
him  daily,  and  watched  the  progress  of 
the  sickness  which  was  to  give  the  death- 
stroke  to  his  ruined  mind  and  body.  On 
the  tenth  day  he  died.  A  few  minutes  be- 
fore closing  forever,  his  eyes  suddenly 
shone  with  a  gleam  of  their  former  lustre, 
a  smile  flitted  over  his  lips,  he  whispered, 
''  Stella ! ''  and  fell  back  on  the  pillows  — 
dead. 

And  Stella?  What  became  of  her? 
Who  knows,  or  who  cares  to  know? 


THE    STAGE    FIEND, 


THE   STAGE   FIEND. 

HE  wind  howled  and  swept  down 
Fifth  Avenue  with  a  dismal  moan, 
rattling  the  shutters  and  weather- 
cocks of  the  silent,  sombre  mansions  which 
line  the  Corso  of  the  New  World.  The 
day  —  a  dreary,  wet,  and  cold  November 
day  —  was  gradually  waning  into  night. 
Here  and  there  a  street-lamp  flickered, 
and  from  behind  the  closely  drawn  blinds 
of  the  windows  a  ruddy  light  shone  into 
the  street,  suggestive  of  comfortable  homes 
and  warm  fire-places  —  for  those  who  en- 
joyed the  supreme  happiness  of  a  home  on 
this  dreary  night. 

This  was  evidently  not  the  case  with  an 
old    fiddler    who   stood    on   the    sidewalk 


152  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

bareheaded,  with  his  gray  hair  flowing  in 
the  wind,  plying  his  instrument  diHgently. 
Through  the  stillness  of  the  street  the 
sounds  of  his  violin  were  heard  distinctly, 
and  seemed  less  discordant  than  perform- 
ances of  street  musicians  are  generally  apt 
to  be.  His  repertoire  was  not  rich ;  "  Pa- 
rigi  cara,*'  from  the  **  Traviata,''  ^*  Santa 
Lucia,''  and  a  romance  by  Gordigiani  were 
all  he  could  play.  But  he  played  these 
songs  with  genuine  feeling,  with  tolerable 
precision,  and  with  that  peculiar  chic  which 
immediately  betrayed  the  Italian  perform- 
ing his  own  national  music.  After  the 
end  of  each  piece  he  wistfully  looked  up 
at  the  closed  windows  on  both  sides,  a 
shiver  passed  over  his  emaciated,  poorly 
clad  figure,  and  after  waiting  a  few  mo- 
ments without  result,  he  again  took  up  his 
violin  and  began  the  next  piece. 

While  the  angry  November  night  closed 
in  on  this  dreary  picture  of  human  desola- 
tion and  helplessness,  the  glow  of  a  great 
fire  burning  cheerfully  in  a  luxuriantly 
furnished  parlor  of  the  house  at  the  gate 


THE  STAGE  FIEND.  I  53 

of  which  the  old  musician  was  standing, 
shone  on  another  picture  of  solitary  grief 
and  misery.  A  young  woman,  dressed 
with  a  sort  of  careless  luxury  in  a  morning 
robe  of  yellow  silk,  paced  fretfully  to  and 
fro  in  the  large  room.  Now  she  approached 
the  piano  and  played  with  one  finger  the 
first  notes  of  '^  Parigi  la  bella ;  "  then  she 
sprang  up  again,  wrung  her  hands,  while 
something  escaped  her  lips  which  sounded 
very  much  like  an  Italian  oath,  and  yawned 
in  the  most  dismal  and  (we  are  sorry  to 
say)  inelegant  fashion.  Here  in  this  abode 
of  wealth  and  luxury,  ennui,  the  dreadest 
of  all  the  monsters  which  assail  and  tor- 
ment humanity,  had  evidently  fixed  his 
residence. 

Suddenly  its  fair  victim  pulled  at  the 
bell  with  an  angry  jerk  which  sent  the 
sound  ringing  and  vibrating  through  the 
whole  house.  A  young  chambermaid 
appeared   on    the    threshold. 

**  Annette,"  said  the  mistress  in  French, 
*^  go  and  call  that  musician  into  the  base- 
ment.    I  feel  terribly  dull  to-night;    per- 


154  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

haps  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  that 
man  will  amuse  me.  But  he  must  not 
know  that  I  am  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
I  will  change  my  dress  and  go  downstairs. 
You  and  Jean  treat  me  just  as  if  I  were  the 
lady's  maid,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
Do   you  hear?" 

The  young  girl  smilingly  nodded  and 
withdrew.  She  was  evidently  used  to  the 
many  whims  of  her  capricious  mistress. 
A  moment  later  the  playing  in  the  street 
ceased,  and  the  voice  of  the  old  man  was 
heard  in  the  basement  showering  blessings 
in  very  imperfect  English  on  the  head  of 
the  ''  noble  signora "  who  had  taken  pity 
on  a  forlorn,  helpless  old  man. 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  lady  herself 
entered  the  basement-room.  She  had 
changed  her  dress  for  a  plainer  gown; 
and  in  pursuance  of  the  directions  they 
had  received,  neither  Annette  nor  the 
man-servant  Jean  noticed  in  any  w^ay  her 
presence. 

''  Well,  have  you  a  good  appetite?  "  she 
asked  the  old  man  in  Italian.     ^*  The  lady 


THE   STAGE   FIEND.  155 

has  ordered  us  to  give  you  as  much  as  you 
Hke  to  eat  and  drink." 

*'  Oh,  my  most  humble  thanks  to  her 
excellency !  "  the  old  man  exclaimed  rap- 
turously, pointing  to  the  wine  and  the 
slices  of  cold  roast  beef  which  stood  before 
him  on  the  table.  ^'  I  have  never  had  so 
good  a  meal  since  the  blessed  days  in  our 
own  beloved  Italy  when  I  played  first 
violin  at  San  Carlo  to  the  singing  of  the 
great  Barberini." 

At  this  name  the  lady  suddenly  sprang 
up,  and  with  an  imperative  gesture  impos- 
ing silence  on  her  servants,  took  a  seat 
close  by  the  musician. 

**  So  you  have  accompanied  the  Barber- 
ini?  "  she  asked  in  an  eager  tone. 

*^  Many  a  time,  signorina ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  those  nights  if  I  live  to  be  as 
old  as  Methuselah.  Oh,  what  an  artist, 
what  a  blessed  child  of  God  she  was  !  And 
what  a  shame  it  was  for  her  to  quit  the 
stage  !  '* 

*'You  think  so?"  retorted  the  lady 
sharply.     ''  Do  not  you  know  that  she  left 


156  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

the  stage  to  marry  a  man  whom  she  dearly 
loved?" 

''  I  know  that  well  enough.  But  where 
can  she  find  that  human  love  which  could 
replace  the  glory,  the  excitement,  the  in- 
effable joy  Art  alone  bestows  on  her  favor- 
ite children?  I  do  not  know  whom  the 
Barberini  married ;  I  have  once  been  told 
her  husband  was  an  American  banker.  If 
so,  she  is  now  probably  very  rich,  and  living 
amid  the  most  exquisite  luxury;  and  yet  — 
well,  I  am  sure  she  feels  dull  and  miserable, 
and  bitterly  regrets  the  time  when  she 
possessed  nothing  in  the  world  but  her 
voice,  and  that  voice  alone  sufficed  to  bring 
the  whole  world  to  her  feet." 

The  lady  answered  not  a  word.  A  dark 
frown  had  settled  on  her  brow  while  the  old 
man  spoke.  When  he  had  ended,  she  sprang 
from  her  chair  and  walked  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  slamming  the  door  behind  her. 

The  old  man  looked  in  speechless  won- 
der from  Annette  to  Jean. 

''What  is  the  matter?"  he  at  length 
uttered.     ''  Who  is  this  lady?  " 


THE  STAGE  FIEND.  I  57 

^*Well,  old  gentleman,"  retorted  the 
young  soubrette^  with  a  mischievous  smile, 
**  you  have  made  a  nice  mess  of  it !  Do 
you  know  who  the  lady  is  you  have  spoken 
to?  No  other  than  Adelina  Barberini 
herself,  now  Mrs.  Henry  Thorndike  Van 
Puyten  !  " 

The  poor  old  violinist's  consternation 
may  be  easier  imagined  than  described. 
At  first  he  insisted  on  going  upstairs  and 
imploring  the  ''  signora's "  pardon,  but 
yielded  at  length  to  the  voice  of  reason ; 
and  after  muttering  countless  invocations  to 
all  the  saints  whose  names  he  could  muster, 
he  left  the  house  heavily  laden  with  victuals 
of  every  description,  with  which  the  good- 
natured  Annette  had  stuffed  his  pockets. 

If  he  could  have  witnessed  the  effect  his 
words  had  produced  on  the  lady  of  the 
house,  the  old  violinist's  distress  would  have 
been  still  greater.  On  leaving  her  protege 
Mrs.  Van  Puyten  returned  to  the  parlor 
and  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  near  the  fire. 
With  heaving  bosom,  her  brows  contracted, 
and  her  beautiful  black  eyes  shining  with 


158  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

tears,  she  sat  there  for  a  long  while,  look- 
ing steadfastly  into  the  flames. 

Her  whole  past  life  appeared  to  her  as 
in  a  mirror.  She  again  saw  the  brilliantly- 
illuminated,  crowded  house  ;  she  heard  the 
storm  of  applause  rising  around  her;  she 
felt  once  more  that  atmosphere  of  thrilling, 
feverish  excitement  which  hovers  about 
the  mysterious  and  picturesque  world  of 
the  stage.  It  was  there  she  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  her  present  husband,  who 
was  one  of  her  most  ardent  admirers. 
Frequent  meetings  in  society  ripened  the 
acquaintance  to  intimacy,  and  at  length  to 
love,  or  at  least  to  what  might  have  been 
easily  mistaken  for  love.  He  loved  in  her 
his  own  vanity,  the  proud  satisfaction  of 
having  attracted  the  notice  of  a  woman  at 
whose  feet  the  richest  potentates  of  the 
financial  and  aristocratic  world  had  fallen 
in  vain.  She  had  been  captivated  by  his 
youth,  his  original  wit,  and  last,  not  least, 
by  the  dazzling  prospect  of  a  life  full  of 
social  triumphs,  of  all  the  luxuries  which 
millions  can  purchase. 


THE  STAGE  FIEND,  159 

They  were  married,  and  came  to  live  in 
New  York.  Two  years  had  passed  since,  — 
two  years  of  the  bitterest  disappointment. 
Her  husband,  as  well  as  the  life  of  those 
circles  of  New  York  society  which  she 
naturally  entered,  proved  on  closer  ac- 
quaintance to  be  widely  different  from  the 
brilliant  picture  the  ci-devmit  Barberini  had 
drawn  of  both  while  the  ''  charm  of  the 
unknown "  still  surrounded  them.  H. 
Thorndike  Van  der  Puyten  (of  the  name 
Thorndike  and  of  his  unquestionable 
Knickerbocker  descent  he  was  immeas- 
urably proud)  was  what  one  is  apt  to  call 
^^  a  capital  fellow."  A  thorough  sports- 
man, he  possessed  all  those  qualities  which 
rendered  life  enjoyable  in  a  quiet,  every- 
day fashion,  without  ever  becoming  un- 
comfortable or  clashing  with  the  ways  and 
manners  of  the  so-called  ''  world."  In  the 
limits  prescribed  by  fashion  he  found  all 
that  his  heart  or  his  imagination  could 
desire.  All  interests  and  pursuits  lying 
beyond  these  limits  were  put  down  as 
eccentric  or  **  improper." 


l6o  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

That  the  passionate  Itahan  prima  donna, 
accustomed  from  her  earHest  youth  to  the 
bustle  and    fre'edom  of  stage  Hfe,   should 
feel    from    day   to  day  more  miserable  in 
this  narrow  sphere   of  barren  social  con- 
ventionalities,  was    not    more    than  might 
have  been  expected.     Gradually  her  tem- 
per changed.    She  grew  fretful,  melancholy. 
Violent  scenes  between  husband  and  wife 
became  daily  more  frequent,  and  were  the 
more  bitter  as  neither  of  the  parties  had  a 
feeling  of  being  in  the  wrong.     Little  by 
little,  poor  Thorndike  came  to  consider  his 
home  as  the  very  reverse  of  paradise,  and 
was  happy  when  business  afforded  him  the 
welcome  pretext  for  a  more   or  less  pro- 
longed absence.     Just  now  he  had  gone  as 
far  as  San  Francisco,  to  inspect  a  mine  he 
had  an  important  interest  in.     This  forced 
solitude  had  still  more  embittered  the  sig- 
nora's  temper,  for  she  loved  her  husband 
still,  and   though  tormenting  him  when  he 
was  present,  missed  him  painfully  when  he 
left  her.     She  had  no  intimate  friends,  and 
derived     no    pleasure    from    a    superficial 


THE   STAGE  FIEND,  l6l 

intercourse  with  the  fashionable  *^  set  *'  to 
whom  her  husband  had  introduced  her. 
Thus  she  passed  nearly  all  her  days  alone, 
with  no  other  company  than  the  recollec- 
tions of  her  past  eventful  life,  and  repeat- 
ing over  and  over  again,  in  the  dreary 
notes  of  the  Venetian  gondolier's  chant, 
Dante's  verse, — 

"  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria." 

The  effect  which  the  unexpected  meet- 
ing with  an  old  associate  of  those  *'  happy 
times ''  produced  on  the  fretting  mind  and 
rebel  heart  of  the  artiste,  can  more  easily 
be  imagined  than  described.  The  old  vio- 
linist had  by  his  words,  which  corresponded 
so  exactly  with  her  innermost  feelings, 
raised  a  storm  in  the  heart  of  the  ex-prima 
donna.  The  ^'  fever  of  the  stage  "  seized 
on  her  with  uncontrollable  power. 

*^  No,"  she  exclaimed  to  herself,  spring- 
ing up  from  her  seat  by  the  fire,  **  I  will 
not,    I  cannot  bear   it   any  longer.      This 

II 


1 62  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

old  beggar  with  his  fiddle  is  happier  than 
I,  for  he  at  least  —  " 

A  sudden  idea  seemed  to  strike  her. 
She  lifted  her  head  with  an  eager  look,  and 
an  exulting  smile  crept  over  her  lips.  She 
sat  down  at  her  writing-desk,  snatched  a 
sheet  of  note-paper  out  of  one  of  the 
drawers,  and  wrote  hastily  a  few  lines. 
Then  she  rang  the  bell ;  and  giving  Annette 
the  letter,  said,  '*  Be  sure  to  have  it  sent  the 
very  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.'* 

On  leaving  the  room  the  chambermaid 
read  the  address :  ^^  Mr.  Maurice  Savarez, 
1 6  W.  Fourteenth  Street,  City.''  The 
name  was  that  of  a  well-known  operatic 
manager.  The  pretty  soubrette  smiled 
slyly  on  delivering  the  letter  to  Jean. 
Both  domestics  looked  at  one  another  in 
a  knowing  way,  but  said  nothing. 

The  next  morning,  before  eleven,  an  ele- 
gant coupe  dashed  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Van 
Puyten's  residence,  and  thence  leaped  out  in 
a  state  of  feverish  excitement  the  well-known 
little  figure  of  Savarez.  Adelina  remained 
closeted  with  him  for  more  than  an  hour. 


THE  STAGE  FIEND.  163 

The  result  of  this  conference  became  evi- 
dent the  very  next  day.  Mysterious  notices 
were  published  by  the  papers,  hinting  at 
the  possibiHty  and  even  probabihty  of  an 
impending  **  event "  of  unparalleled  interest 
to  the  musical  world. 

A  few  days  later  there  appeared  in  all 
the  journals  the  following  card :  — 

ADELINA   BARBERINI 

HAS    THE    HONOR    OF    ANNOUNCING    THAT    SHE 

WILL  GIVE   A 

CONCERT, 

FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF  A  POOR  ARTISTE,  AT 

THE   ACADEMY   OF   MUSIC 

On  Novernber  28. 

The  news  of  the  impending  event  ran 
like  lightning  through  the  city.  The  papers 
published  biographical  sketches  of  the 
artiste,  giving  wonderful  particulars  of 
her  former  triumphs,  and  hinting  delicate- 
ly at  her  present  high  social  position.  In  a 
few  days  every  available  seat  in  the  house 
was  reserved.  Many  had  sent  tenfold  the 
actual  price   for  their  tickets;    the  stock- 


l64  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

holders  of  the  Academy  themselves  on 
this  extraordinary  and  memorable  occa- 
sion paid  full  price  for  their  boxes.  Before 
the  concert  had  taken  place  the  receipts 
had  already  attained  a  sum  which  Signor 
Savarez  declared  to  be  unparalleled  in 
the  annals  of  musical  enterprise. 

At  length  the  great  day  came.  The  pro- 
gramme, distributed  only  on  the  morning 
of  the  28th,  added  still  more  to  the  interest 
of  the  event.  Signora  Barberini  was  to 
appear  as  Margherita  in  the  third  act  of 
Gounod's  **  Faust,"  seconded  by  the  first 
artiste  of  the  Italian  Opera. 

Long  before  eight  o'clock  the  Academy 
was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity.  A 
thrill  of  suspense  and  of  intense  curiosity 
ran  through  the  house  while  the  overture, 
played  by  the  orchestra  of  the  Italian 
Opera  (who  had  volunteered  their  services 
for  the  occasion),  and  the  other  numbers  of 
the  programme,  all  performed  by  exquisite 
artisteSy  were  being  disposed  of.  All  the 
interest,  all  the  attention  of  the  thousands 
of  people  who  crammed  the  house  were 


THE  STAGE  FIEND.  165 

concentrated  on  that  one  act  of  ''Faust" 
which  was  to  close  the  concert.  At  length 
the  curtain  rose,  displaying  the  well-known 
scenery  of  Margherita's  garden.  Siebel 
sang  his  air  to  the  flowers,  Faust  (one  of 
the  few  good  tenors  still  treading  on  earth) 
rendered,  wath  exquisite  feeling,  his  invoca- 
tion to  the  dimora  casta  e  pii7'a;  the  wicked 
tempter  Mephisto  placed  his  casket  of  jew- 
els on  a  chair ;  then  came  some  soft,  mellow 
tones  in  the  orchestra,  announcing  the 
entrance  of  Margherita,  the  garden-door 
opened,  and  then,  like  the  roar  of  the  ocean, 
there  arose  from  all  parts  of  the  house  a 
deafening  storm  of  cheers  and  applause 
which  drowned  every  other  sound.  One 
moment  the  artiste  stopped  at  the  door, 
seemingly  dazzled  by  the  enthusiasm  she  ex- 
cited ;  then  she  advanced  slowly,  bowing  as 
she  went.  When  she  reached  the  footlights 
the  musical  director —  a  gray-haired  veteran 
of  the  artistic  world  —  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  bowing  low  to  the  artiste,  presented  her, 
in  the  name  of  the  orchestra,  with  a  beau- 
tiful nosegay  of  white  roses  and  violets. 


1 66  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  new  and  still 
more  enthusiastic  ovation.  Following  the 
example  of  the  musicians  and  their  direc- 
tor, nearly  the  whole  audience  rose  from 
their  seats,  while  a  shower  of  flowers  was 
poured  from  the  proscenium  boxes  on  the 
stage.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  frenzy  of 
applause  the  Barberini  stood  motionless, 
with  bowed  head,  a  smile  of  unutterable 
happiness  illumining  her  face,  and  big 
tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

Never  had  the  great  artiste  looked  more 
beautiful.  She  had  disdained  to  follow 
the  tradition,  and  had  not  concealed  un- 
der a  blond  wig  her  own  beautiful  black 
hair,  which  fell  in  two  shining  tresses  over 
her  shoulders;  her  eyes,  flashing  with  hap- 
piness, triumph,  and  tears,  gave  a  peculiar 
lustre  to  all  her  features.  She  stood  there  in 
all  her  dazzling  beauty,  with  heaving  bosom, 
like  a  statue,  —  a  work  of  art  of  wonderful 
perfection,  but  full  of  passion  and  life. 

More  than  five  minutes  elapsed  before 
the  first  enthusiasm  subsided  so  as  to  allow 
the  artiste  to   begin  her  part.     How  she 


THE   STAGE  FIEND.  1 67 

sang  it;  how  after  each  air  the  applause 
broke  out  afresh  ;  how  many  times  she  was 
called  before  the  curtain  at  the  close  of  the 
act,  —  all  this  baffles  description,  and  is 
still  fresh  in  the  memory  of  all  who  were 
fortunate  enough  to  witness  that  remark- 
able performance. 

While  the  applause  and  the  frenzy  of  the 
public  were  at  their  highest,  nobody  no- 
ticed an  old  man,  in  a  shabby  black  coat, 
standing  at  one  of  the  doors  of  the  parquet. 
With  arms  stretched  out  towards  the  stage, 
he  stood  there  sobbing  like  a  child,  and 
muttering  in  a  broken  voice,  — 

*'  What  an  angel !  What  an  angel  of 
heaven  she  is  !  " 

On  her  arrival  at  home  the  artiste  was 
received  with  another  and  still  more  touch- 
ing demonstration.  The  chorus  of  the 
Italian  Opera  waited  with  lighted  torches 
at  her  door,  and  serenaded  her,  the  music 
consisting  exclusively  of  Italian  national 
airs. 

The  night  was  far  advanced  when  Mrs. 
Van  Puyten  at  last  found  herself  alone  in 


1 68  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

her  bedroom.  She  was  tired  out  by  all  the 
emotions  of  the  evening,  but  could  find  no 
rest.  She  paced  about  the  room  with  a 
nervous,  restless  step,  wringing  her  hands, 
sighing  deeply,  convulsive  sobs  shaking 
from  time  to  time  her  whole  figure.  A 
fearful  struggle,  on  the  issue  of  which  her 
whole  future  life  depended,  seemed  to  be 
raging  in  her  breast. 

The  pale  light  of  a  November  morning 
was  breaking  through  the  curtains  when 
Mrs.  Van  Puyten  sat  down  to  her  table 
and  dashed  off  a  few  hasty  lines  on  a  sheet 
of  note-paper.  The  letter  began  with 
the  words,  — 

^'  Forgive  me,  forgive  me  !  I  cannot  bear 
this  life  any  longer  !  It  would  but  render  us 
both  still  more  miserable  ! " 

Two  months  later,  on  a  lovely  night  in 
January,  the  great  hall  of  the  San  Carlo 
Theatre  at  Naples  was  crowded  with  all 
that  fashion  and  art  could  muster  in  the 
great  city.  From  Rome,  from  Florence, 
the    connoisseurs    had    assembled    to   wel- 


THE  STAGE   FIEND,  1 69 

come  the  great  Barberini  back  to  the 
stage.  It  was  an  event  which  all  Italy 
celebrated  as  a  national  festival. 

While  the  orchestra  were  tuning  their 
instruments  many  among  the  audience  no- 
ticed an  old  man  sitting  in  the  row  of  the 
first  violins,  and  wearing  an  expression  of 
unutterable  joy  and  solemn  triumph  on  his 
lean,  wrinkled  face.  As  he  took  up  his 
violin  and  adjusted  it  under  his  chin,  he 
looked  more  like  a  priest  preparing,  for  a 
solemn  ritual  than  an  orchestra  musician 
about  to  do  his  night's  work. 

**  It  is  I,  my  friend,"  he  whispered  to 
his  neighbor  in  an  exulting  tone,  '^  who 
brought  her  back  to  the  stage.  Thank 
God !  " 


GRAZIELLA    THE    MODEL. 


GRAZIELLA  THE   MODEL. 

NE   day  last   summer    as  Bartholdi 

and  I  were  going  to  the  studio  of 

a  rather  eccentric  friend  of  ours, 

known  to  the  art  world  as  Frederic  Holt, 

I   was   suddenly   startled   by  these  words 

from  my  companion, — 

**  Where  on  earth,  old  fellow,  do  you 
rake  up  subjects  for  your  little  stories?  " 

**  Ah !  **  I  exclaimed,  ^'  do  you  find  my 
little  stories  so  trivial?'* 

I  confess  I  was  just  a  trifle  nettled  by 
the  tone  of  the  question,  which  was  not 
complimentary,  but  on  the  contrary  seemed 
to  imply  a  slight  feeling  of  scorn  for  my 
brain  labors  past,  present,  and  future.  I 
was    hurt;    but   having    no    extraordinary 


1/4  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

opinion  of  my  friend's  literary  judgment, 
I  stifled  my  anger  and  replied  in  a  calm 
unruffled  voice, — 

**  To-day,  my  good  friend,  you  may 
perhaps  see  the  kind  of  place  wherein  I 
not  unfrequently  find  subjects  for  my  *  little 
stories/  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  them. 
At  the  same  time,"  I  continued,  with  that 
calm  irony  for  which  I  am  noted,  **you 
must  keep  your  eyes  open ;  for  there  are 
certain  people  who  are  unable  to  see  be- 
yond their  own  noses,  and  who  value  liter- 
ary work  by  its  bulk,  rather  than  by  its 
quality.  Attar  of  roses,  my  friend,  is  offen- 
sive to  the  coarse  senses  of  certain  people, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  there  are  men  living 
in  this  world  who  would  ask  in  their  ignor- 
ance where  Shakspeare  picked  up  the  ma- 
terials for  his  little  story  of  Hamlet." 

As  I  concluded  my  bitterly  sarcastic 
speech  we  found  ourselves  in  a  sort  of 
court-yard  built  in  the  Italian  style  of  no 
particular  era,  at  the  end  of  which  was 
a  door  cut  in  the  wall  of  an  old  house. 
Guarding  this  door  were  two  lions   in  an 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL,  175 

attitude  suggesting  that  they  intended  to 
hurl  themselves  against  the  bars  of  their 
cage.  Their  eyes  were  flashing,  their 
mouths  open,  and  their  tongues  protruding ; 
but  as  these  terrible  beasts  were  only  in 
the  form  of  a  rough  design  sketched  on 
the  wall,  we  boldly  approached  the  door 
and  passed  it  with  no  further  mishap  than 
a  slight  soiling  of  our  coats  with  white- 
wash and  crumbling  plaster. 

For  several  days  past  Frederic  Holt 
had  been  almost  a  fixture  in  his  studio, 
working  with  tremendous  energy  on  a 
picture  in  which  he  intended  to  display  all 
his  technique  and  at  the  same  time  reveal 
his  knowledge  of  drawing  and  of  color. 
His  great  desire  was  at  the  same  time 
to  arouse  the  interest  of  a  particular  patron 
well  known  to  the  community  of  artists; 
but  on  account  of  some  circumstances  only 
known  to  himself,  Frederic  was  compelled 
to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  his  already 
over-elaborated  picture,  with  the  sickening 
conviction  that,  after  all,  it  must  go  to  the 
general  Academy  exhibition,  and  there  be 


176  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

subjected  to  the  cold  and  unsympathetic 
criticisms  of  a  hard-hearted  pubHc. 

Our  friend  had  studied  for  many  years 
in  Europe,  and  not  only  had  a  great  repu- 
tation, but  had  also  produced  a  few  good 
pictures,  — which  is  a  paradox  I  do  not  care 
to  explain.  As  soon  as  it  was  known  that 
an  interesting  subject  was  under  treatment 
on  his  easel,  friends  and  the  pubHc  gener- 
ally were  attracted  to  his  studio. 

According  to  his  custom,  the  artist  had 
chosen  an  historical  subject;  and  fondly 
believing  that  his  talents  would  be  judged 
from  the  size  of  his  picture,  he  had  filled 
an  immense  canvas  with  a  representation 
called  **  Nero's  Dream.'*  This  represented 
a  bare-legged  man,  confined  in  the  Laocoon 
folds  of  a  streaming  toga,  standing  on  the 
ruins  of  a  Parthenonic  building  and  wildly 
shivering  at  the  sight  of  a  multitude  of 
phantoms  that  were  scantily  dressed  in 
sheets  and  ornamented  with  clanking  iron 
chains. 

We  found  our  friend  moving  nervously 
about  among  his  visitors,   constantly  ap- 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL.  177 

preaching  his  picture  to  turn  it  a  little  to 
the  right  or  left,  arranging  the  curtains  to 
obtain  the  best  possible  light,  and  at  the 
same  time  watching  the  faces  of  his  guests 
as  if  he  hoped  to  read  the  secrets  of  their 
very  souls. 

**  Superb,  grand,  gigantic,  massive,  bold, 
delicate,  fine,  delightful,  Michelangel- 
esque,''  were  the  adjectives  freely  bandied 
about. 

'^Do  you  not  find  relief  in  the  picture,  a 
general  mastery  of  color,  and  good  per- 
spective?" Frederic  modestly  inquired, 
while  he  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  praises  of 
his  indulgent  brother  artists. 

"Magnificent!  perfect!"  they  exclaimed; 
and  they  turned  their  backs  to  the  picture 
to  enjoy  the  more  refreshing  sight  of  a  keg 
of  beer  that  was  in  the  corner  of  the  studio, 
and  served  to  modify  the  customary  acidity 
of  the  critical  throat  and  voice. 

In  the  din  of  voices  no  one  in  the  room 
seemed  to  hear  several  discreet  taps  on  the 
door ;  as  there  was  no  response  to  them,  the 
portihe  that   screened    the    entrance   was 


1/8  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

quietly  raised,  and  the  figure  of  a  young 
girl  appeared. 

"  Ah  !  that 's  Graziella !  ''  exclaimed 
several  of  the  men. 

"  Come  in !  "  said  Frederic,  advancing 
towards  her  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

*'  I  fear  I  shall  disturb  you,''  she  said, 
with  a  foreign  but  agreeable  accent.  *^  Ex- 
cuse me ;   I  will  come  back  another  day." 

Frederic,  who  would  willingly  have  de- 
tained the  girl,  saw  her  flit  from  the  room 
with  the  grace  and  shyness  of  a  chamois. 

^*  There  goes  an  exception  to  her  sex 
in  general  and  her  nation  in  particular," 
said  the  artist  with  a  half-sigh. 

''  Ah,  how  charitable  !  how  gallant !  how 
interesting !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  young 
men  present.  "  But  I  should  like  to  teach 
your  exception  good  manners,"  he  added, 
rushing  to  the  window  and  making  pan- 
tomimic signs  to  the  retreating  Graziella, 
who  turned  her  back  on  him,  evidently 
vexed  for  having  indulged  in  a  retrospec- 
tive glance. 

The  unabashed  young  fellow  approached 


GRAZIELLA   THE  MODEL.  1 79 

the  artist,  and  digging  him  in  the  ribs, 
said, — 

''  You  are  a  lucky  dog,  Holt !  We 
understand,  you  know.  Artist  and  model ! 
Lake  of  Como  and  Ovid  !  " 

The  turn  the  conversation  had  taken 
caused  some  anger  in  the  breast  of  the 
painter  of  *' Nero's  Dream;  "  and  drawing 
himself  up,  he  explained  with  indignant 
warmth  that  the  girl  was  no  ordinary  fre- 
quenter of  studios,  and  that  having  noth- 
ing in  common  with  those  of  the  profession, 
she  was  the  impersonation  of  modesty  and 
virtue. 

*'  I  would  answer  for  her  as  for  my 
sister,"  he  exclaimed,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  flashing  eyes. 

''  See  here,  Frederic,  don't  fly  off*  at  a 
tangent.  She  is  pretty,  confoundedly 
pretty.     How  long  have  you  known  her?  " 

**  Only  for  a  few  months.  She  is  re- 
served and  good,  and  worthy  the  honest 
love  of  any  man.'' 

"  Go  it,  Fred,  my  boy  !  I  say,  though, 
if  you  keep  on  you   will  end  by  speaking 


l80  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

blank  verse.  By  the  way,  though,  what 
a  splendid  title  and  subject  for  a  picture : 
*  The  Organ-Grinder's  Child ;  or,  the 
Artist's  Infatuation/ '' 

**  Laugh  on,  my  critic  !  and  yet  I  still  dare 
to  affirm  that  the  girl  is  honest  and  good/* 

In  fact  Graziella  merited  all  that  the 
artist  could  say  in  her  defence.  At  the 
age  of  fifteen  she  had  left  her  native  coun- 
try, the  superb  coast  of  Sorrento,  to  emi- 
grate with  a  band  of  Neapolitans,  and  a 
few  weeks  later  had  disembarked  with  a 
miscellaneous  assortment  of  good  and  evil 
at  Castle  Garden,  New  York. 

Having  neither  father  nor  mother,  Grazi- 
ella had  brought  with  her  no  other  souve- 
nir than  the  memory  of  her  native  village 
and  her  young  lazzarone  lover,  who  passed 
his  days  in  sleeping  under  the  vines  by 
the  sea,  often  having  no  other  breakfast 
than  the  warm  rays  of  sunlight  that  pen- 
etrate every  nook  and  corner  of  that 
favored  land. 

Upon  the  arrival  of  Graziella  and  her 
Neapolitan  friends  in  New  York  the  band 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL,  l8l 

became  scattered,  though  a  large  number 
settled  in  the  neighborhood  of  Marion  and 
Crosby  streets,  while  Graziella  found  a 
home  for  herself  with  an  old  country- 
woman of  hers  in  a  dreary  house  devoid 
of  sunshine  and  all  other  comforts,  except 
that  of  the  protection  and  good-will  of 
the  old  woman. 

The  girl's  only  pleasure  was  to  sally 
forth  at  daybreak,  and  after  a  long  walk 
to  wander  about  Castle  Garden,  which 
became  her  habitual  promenade;  so  that 
one  might  have  supposed  that  the  bright 
little  figure  bloomed  there  like  the  other 
flowers. 

After  the  fashion  of  many  of  her  coun- 
trywomen she  retained  the  national  cos- 
tume, which  consisted  of  a  green  petticoat 
short  enough  to  reveal  her  tidy  shoes  and 
stockings,  a  dark  velvet  bodice,  the  never- 
failing  striped  apron,  and  the  white  head- 
covering  that  set  off  to  advantage  the 
glossiness  of  the  thick  black  hair.  The 
cleanliness  of  her  apparel  amounted  almost 
to  daintiness.  • 


1 82  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

As  an  exception  to  her  race,  her  com- 
plexion was  pink  and  white,  in  strong 
contrast  to  the  usual  dark-olive  hue  of 
the  ordinary  Neapolitan.  Her  complexion 
was  not  only  fine,  but  her  features  were 
of  the  utmost  regularity.  Coral  lips,  tiny 
mouth,  and  large,  tender  eyes,  shaded  by 
long  lashes,  arrested  the  attention  of  passers- 
by;  and  not  unfrequently  poor  Graziella 
was  frightened  by  the  undisguised  admira- 
tion of  the  unknown  who  congregated  at 
the  Battery  on  Sunday  afternoons. 

If  by  chance  she  was  accosted  by  some 
unknown  person,  she  quietly  betook  her- 
self to  another  part  of  the  park,  to  dream 
in  peace  in  the  beautiful  October  sunlight 
of  New  York. 

These  hours  of  dolce  far  niente  became 
less  and  less  frequent,  however ;  for  Grazi- 
ella, like  her  compatriots,  was  obliged  to 
earn  her  daily  bread,  which  she  had  also 
to  share  with  the  old  woman  to  whom  she 
owed  shelter. 

To  provide  for  her  wants  this  girl  had 
two  resources ;  namely,  to  pose  as  a  model 


GRAZIELLA    THE   MODEL.  183 

for  artists  during  the  morning,  and  in  the 
afternoon  to  turn  the  handle  of  a  small 
organ  in  the  most  frequented  streets. 

She  had  been  initiated  into  the  profes- 
sion of  model  by  Frederic  Holt,  who  had 
seen  her  one  day  turning  the  hand-organ 
opposite  the  window  of  Martinelli's  restau- 
rant, where  he  was  dining.  Her  natural 
beauty  and  simple  grace  at  once  attracted 
his  trained  eye,  that  was  ever  on  the  alert 
for  the  picturesque  and  the  beautiful.  Soon 
the  girl  became  a  favorite  in  the  studios, 
where  by  posing  three  or  four  hours  daily 
she  was  eventually  enabled  to  hire  a  more 
cheerful  room  for  herself  and  the  old 
woman,  whom  she  would  not  abandon  in 
the  days  of  her  comparative  prosperity. 

Notwithstanding  her  seeming  content- 
ment, a  sigh  would  sometimes  escape  from 
the  little  Graziella's  lips,  —  the  mute  expres- 
sion of  a  longing  desire  to  see  her  lover, 
Salvatore,  who  was  so  far  away. 

Her  only  amusement  in  the  evening  was 
to  count  up  the  little  earnings  of  the  day, 
over  and  above  the  modest  needs  of  the 


1 84  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

small  household.  An  old  woollen  stocking 
was  the  receptacle  for  these  coins,  and  a 
dilapidated  chest  the  safety  deposit  vault 
of  the  stocking. 

**  And  when  shall  I  have  five  hundred 
dollars,  I  wonder?''  Graziella  would  repeat 
to  herself  with  weary,  yearning  iteration. 

Five  hundred  dollars ! 

That  was  the  sum  the  young  girl  had 
fixed  on  to  carry  back  with  her  to  Sorrento. 
It  was  to  be  the  dowry  she  had  set  her 
heart  on,  —  her  marriage-basket  the  day 
that  she  should  become  the  legitimate  wife 
of  worthy  Salvatore,  who  in  the  mean 
time  was  patiently  idling  away  his  time 
and  awaiting  his  bride,  sleeping  under  the 
orange-trees  like  a  dormouse. 

Alas !  it  would  take  a  long  time  yet  to 
collect  five  hundred  dollars ;  many  pictures 
must  be  posed  for  before  the  magic  sum 
would  be  complete. 

Frederic  Holt  felt  a  tender  sentiment 
for  his  little  model,  —  a  sentiment  whose 
full  meaning  he  perhaps  did  not  interpret 
even  to  himself.     He  felt  happy  when  she 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL.  185 

was  in  his  studio,  and  loved  to  hear  the 
sound  of  her  pleasant  little  voice  and 
note  the  changeful  expression  of  her  bright, 
dazzling  eyes.  She  was  only  a  model ;  yet 
he  had  never  dreamed  of  paining  her 
little  heart  with  an  evil  action.  The 
idea  of  marriage  with  her  was  ridiculous; 
and  yet  how  dark  his  studio  seemed  to 
grow  when  she  left  it !  what  sunshine  she 
brought  with  her,  and  what  a  lonely  life 
was  his ! 

The  day  following  that  of  the  reception 
at  the  studio,  Graziella  reappeared  accord- 
ing to  her  promise.  The  door  being  open, 
she  entered  without  knocking,  to  find  her- 
self quite  alone  in  the  room  which  the 
artist  had  just  left. 

On  entering  soon  after,  he  heard  a  little 
cry  of  joy,  and  saw  his  model  standing 
before  a  bright  oil-sketch  hung  against 
the  wall,  in  a  corner  usually  concealed  by 
a  heavy  tapestry  curtain ;  and  here,  amid  a 
quantity  of  studio  rubbish  and  sketches 
brought  from  Italy,  was  the  painting  that 
had   attracted    Graziella's    attention.     She 


1 86  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

clapped  her  hands  with  pleasure,  while  her 
breath  came  more  and  more  quickly,  and 
her  great  eyes  dilated  as  though  receiving 
a  reflection  from  the  vivifying  Italian  sun. 

The  whole  attitude  of  the  girl  was  that 
of  ecstasy.  ''  Oh,  it  is  that !  It  is  that ! '' 
she  murmured.  **The  laurel-trees,  the  wild 
chestnut  behind  the  hill,  where  the  boys 
play  mora;  and,  blessed  Maria!  the  very 
houses  are  there,  even  the  one  where  I  wa^ 
born  !  How  beautiful  it  is  !  how  happy  it 
makes  me  to  see  my  country  again !  Ah, 
if  I  could  only  remain  here  looking  at  it 
forever !  " 

The  girl  had  fallen  on  her  knees  as  be- 
fore a  Madonna,  repeating  to  herself,  — 

**  How  lovely  it  is  !  It  seems  as  though 
I  must  be  back  in  Sorrento,  and  Salvatore 
must  be  coming  to  meet  me !  I  was  cold 
a  little  while  ago;  now  I  am  warm.  I  feel 
the  sun  upon  the  canvas,  which  sparkles  in 
the  tree-tops  and  on  the  sea.  It  is  beauti- 
ful, so  beautiful !  " 

Graziella  was  so  absorbed  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  picture  and  the  memories 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL,  \Z^ 

it  called  forth  that  she  did  not  notice 
the  entrance  of  Frederic,  who  gently  ap- 
proached her,  and  after  listening  with 
thoughtful  face  to  her  enthusiastic  mono- 
logue, touched  her  cheek  lightly  with  a 
trembling  finger  and   said,  — 

*^  Are  you  praying,  little  one?  '* 

*' Oh,  no!  signor;  I  was  thinking  that 
these  sketches  must  be  worth  something,  — 
at  least  this  one  of  my  own  country." 

**  I  had  forgotten  them,  little  one,"  he 
answered. 

'*  This  one  of  Sorrento,  signor,  is  beau- 
tiful; how  well  I  know  it!  It  needs  only 
Salvatore  in  it  to  make  it  perfect." 

''  Salvatore,"  he  repeated,  gazing  down 
thoughtfully  at  the  flushed,  excited  face  of 
the  girl. 

**  My  intended  husband,  signor ;  he  lives 
in  the  place  you  have  so  beautifully 
painted." 

"  And  are  you  so  anxious  to  see  him 
again,  little  one?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer  in  words,  but 
tears  welled  up  to  her  eyes,  and  her  lips 


1 88  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

trembled.  The  man  turned  aside  and 
walked  to  the  dusty  window,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  girl  was  by  his  side. 

*'  Your  soul  speaks  in  that  picture,  sig- 
nor.  It  is  lovely,  —  better,  far  better  than 
that,"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  famous 
''  Nero's  Dream.'' 

"  You  shall  see  Salvatore,  little  one," 
said  the  artist,  gazing  sadly  at  the  girl; 
**  but  leave  me  now,  for  I  have  no  need  of 
you  this  morning." 

There  was  yet  a  day  to  spare  before  the 
expiration  of  the  time  in  which  his  pictures 
were  to  be  sent  to  the  exhibition. 

When  Graziella  left  the  room,  '*  Nero's 
Dream "  was  turned  to  the  wall  and  was 
never  finished.  Two  weeks  later,  Frederic 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  ''  Sor- 
rento "  admirably  hung  at  the  Academy, 
where  it  was  enthusiastically  praised,  and, 
what  is  better,  was  sold  at  an  extravagant 
and  unlooked-for  price  to  an  enthusiastic 
millionnaire. 

One  day,  when  Graziella  was  again  pos- 
ing for  our  friend,  and  looking  more  pen- 


GRAZIELLA    THE  MODEL.  1 89 

sive  than  usual,  Frederic  suddenly  surprised 
her  by  asking  how  much  money  was  yet 
lacking  to  make  up  the  sum  of  the  coveted 
five  hundred  dollars. 

*'Alas!  signor,  three  hundred  dollars/' 
was  the  mournful  reply.  *^  I  shall  not  see 
Salvatore  for  many  a  year.'* 

"And  are  you  so  anxious  to  see  him, 
little  one?'' 

*'  My  heart  would  break,  signor,  without 
that  hope.     He  is  my  life,  my  soul !  " 

The  artist  sighed,  and  stared  gloomily  at 
the  young  girl. 

*' Are  you  angry  with  me,  signor?"  she 
asked  timidly. 

'*  Angry,  little  one?  No!  See,  my 
child,  here  are  three  hundred  dollars. 
Take  them;  they  are  honestly  yours,  for 
without  you  they  would  never  have  been 
earned.  Through  you  I  sold  my  Italian 
sketch,  and  I  give  you  this  to  take  you 
back  to  Italy  and  to  —  Salvatore  !  One 
kiss,  my  child,  as  a  memory,  and  then 
good-by  to  you  forever." 

And  this  is  the   reason  that,  ten  days 


I90 


MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 


later,  the  little  model  bade  farewell  to  New 
York,  to  return  to  her  native  land  and  to 
her  Salvatore,  whom  perhaps  she  has  been 
able  to  keep  awake  by  relating  to  him  her 
wonderful  experiences  in  the  great  city 
beyond  the  sea. 


WHO    WAS    HE? 


WHO  WAS   HE? 

*'  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,  than 
are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy."  —  Shakspeare. 


F  the  story  I  am  about  to  narrate 
seems  strange,  even  incomprehen- 
sible, to  the  reader,  I  beg  to  state 
from  the  very  first  that  I  myself  am  of 
the  same  opinion  about  it.  Though  I 
actually  witnessed  and  even  took  part  in 
the  strange  occurrences  I  am  about  to  re- 
late ;  though  I  lived  for  years  in  intimate 
intercourse  with  the  strange  being  I  have 
again  heard  from  so  unexpectedly  but 
a  few  days  ago,  —  yet  I  am  still  entirely 
unable  to  explain  what  I  have  seen.  I 
simply  state  facts,  leaving  it  to  the  reader 
to  draw  what  inferences  he  may  choose. 

13 


194  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1864  I  en- 
tered the  University  of  St.  Petersburg. 
Having  passed  my  childhood  and  early 
youth  in  Germany  and  in  England,  I  had 
naturally  but  few  acquaintances  in  Russia ; 
and  though  a  Russian  by  birth,  I  had  some 
trouble  in  mastering  the  language  suffi- 
ciently to  follow  the  course  of  studies  I  had 
selected.  I  worked  hard,  and  avoided  the 
society  of  other  students  of  my  class,  —  first, 
because  as  a  set  of  light-headed  young 
"  swells"  belonging  to  rich  and  aristocratic 
families,  bent  much  more  on  amusement 
than  on  study,  they  would  have  interfered 
with  my  occupations;  and  secondly,  be- 
cause even  then  I  was  imbued  with  those 
political  ideas  which  have  since  had  such 
a  powerful  influence  on  my  whole  life, 
and  which  naturally  kept  me  from  ming- 
ling with  representatives  of  a  class  which 
I  hated  as  the  source  of  misery  and 
oppression. 

For  a  young  man  not  yet  out  of  his  teens 
I  led  a  rather  solitary,  almost  monastic, 
life.    But  though  not  mingling  with  society 


WHO    WAS  HE  9  195 

in  its  brilliant  and  noisy  manifestations, 
I  was  a  careful  observer- of  the  earnest 
current  of  discontent  which  undermined 
it,  and  which  even  then  was  preparing 
the  powerful  revolutionary  movement  now 
in  progress.  Having  no  personal  connec- 
tion with  the  representatives  of  the  radical 
party  of  the  time,  I  confined  myself  to 
reading  diHgently  the  publications  which, 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  the  Russian 
press  censorship,  were  considered  the 
mouthpieces  of  the  advanced  party.  The 
Sovremennik  (Contemporary)  and  the 
Riisskoye  Sioso  (Russian  World),  both  edi- 
ted by  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
publicists  and  critics  Russia  has  ever  pos- 
sessed, were  always  to  be  found  on  my 
table.  And  with  what  eager  enthusiasm  I 
cut  the  sheets  of  a  new  critical  essay  of 
Dobroluboff,  a  new  poem  of  Nekrassoff, 
**  the  poet  of  Russian  woe  and  sorrow,*' 
some  newly  published  politico-economical 
article  of  Tchernyshevsky,  who  was  then 
pining  in  a  subterranean  dungeon  of  the 
"Peter  and  Paul  fortress  "  at  St.  Petersburg, 


196  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

previous  to  being  buried  alive  in  the  town 
of  Eastern  Siberia  to  which  he  was  later 
sent.  The  writings  of  these  men  were  my 
only  companions;  and  as  I  knew  that  in 
this  respect  I  should  find  neither  compre- 
hension nor  sympathy  on  the  part  of  most 
of  my  "  aristocratic"  fellow-students,  I  held 
aloof  from  them. 

Among  the  throng  of  young  faces  which 
I  met  daily  in  the  lecture-hall  was  one 
which  had  struck  me  from  the  very  first, 
and  not  agreeably.  It  was  that  of  a 
young  man  dressed  always  with  the  ut- 
most elegance.  This  face  wore  a  curi- 
ously mingled  look  of  juvenile  freshness 
and  deep  melancholy,  the  latter  mostly 
concealed  under  a  bland  smile,  which  gave 
to  the  whole  countenance  a  cunning  and 
insinuating  expression.  The  melancholy 
lay  in  the  eyes,  which  looked  old  and  life- 
less out  of  the  young,  fresh  face.  This 
contrast  between  the  eyes  and  the  rest  of 
the  face  was  peculiarly  striking,  disagree- 
able, and  at  the  same  time  fascinating. 
Wherever    that    queer    face    appeared    I 


WHO    WAS  HE?  197 

could  not  help  feeling  myself  attracted 
by  it;  and  this  attraction  seemed  to  me 
mutual,  for  as  often  as  I  looked  up  to  it 
I  could  feel  those  sad,  pensive  eyes  fixed 
on  me. 

On  one  bitter  cold  night  as  I  walked 
home  from  the  university,  muffled  in  my 
fur-coat  up  to  the  ears,  I  heard  the 
footsteps  of  a  man  following  me,  and 
on  turning  round  found  myself  face  to 
face  with  the  young  student  I  have 
mentioned. 

*^  Do  not  let  me  detain  you,"  he  said, 
touching  his  beaver  cap ;  *'  the  evening  is 
cold,  and  we  can  talk  while  we  walk,  and 
finish  our  conversation  in  your  room,  as 
you  will  certainly  invite  me  to  take  a  cup 
of  tea  with  you/* 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  and  that  same 
cunning,  disagreeable  smile  I  had  so  often 
noticed  lit  up  his  face. 

''  You  doubtless  consider  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, *^  a  very  impertinent  fellow.  Never 
mind ;  bear  with  me  for  an  hour  or  so, 
and  then  we  are  sure  to  be  the  best  friends 


198  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

in  the  world,  —  that  is,  if  I  am  not  greatly 
mistaken  in  you/* 

There  was  a  frank,  guileless  tone  in  his 
speech  which  prevented  my  getting  angry 
with  him. 

*•  If  you  are  so  sure  about  our  becoming 
friends  so  soon,"  I  answered,  laughing, 
*^  you  will  perhaps  be  kind  enough  to  men- 
tion your  name." 

''Certainly;  my  name  is  Michael 
Somoff." 

We  walked  on  in  silence.  On  reaching 
the  door  of  my  house  I  stopped. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Somoff,  **you  do 
not  invite  me  to  step  in.  Oh,  what  an 
inhospitable  wretch  you  are !  Very  well, 
I  will  not  trouble  you  any  longer;  but 
if  you  read  in  to-morrow's  paper  that 
a  frozen  corpse,  belonging  to  Michael 
Somoff,  student  at  law,  has  been  found  in 
the  street,  then  may  my  blood  and  that  of 
my  future  children  rest  on  your  soul ! " 

What  could  I  answer?  Of  course  I 
laughed,  opened  my  door,  and  invited  him 
to  enter. 


WHO    WAS  HE?  199 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  engaged  in 
a  most  lively  and  engrossing  conversation. 
I  found  in  Somoff  a  man  of  extensive 
learning  and  experience.  An  article  about 
the  rate  of  wages  in  the  manufacturing 
districts  of  Russia,  which  had  just  then 
appeared  in  one  of  the  monthly  reviews, 
furnished  him  the  occasion  of  displaying 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  customs, 
ways  of  life,  and  economical  condition  of 
the  working  classes  in  the  different  prov- 
inces of  the  empire,  which  was  surprising 
in  so  young  a  representative  of  the  *^  fash- 
ionable "  youth  of  the  capital.  That  our 
political  opinions  were  identical,  Somoff 
seemed  to  take  for  granted  from  the  very 
first.  But  while  my  revolutionary  pro- 
pensities bore  rather  the  character  of  an 
undeveloped  instinct,  his  political  creed, 
as  it  appeared  in  every  word  he  spoke, 
was  matured  by  experience  and  a  pro- 
found, earnest  study  of  Russian  national 
hfe. 

After  an  hour's  talk  the  man  had  entirely 
bewitched  me.     I  am  unable  to  find  another 


200  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

word  to  express  the  peculiar  influence  he 
gained  over  my  mind.  Everything  he 
said  appeared  to  me  so  true,  so  noble, 
so  full  of  authority,  that  I  scarcely  ven- 
tured to  take  part  in  the  conversation, 
and  let  him  speak  and  speak,  listening 
to  his  clear,  metallic  voice  as  to  a  sweet 
melody. 

At  last  he  stopped,  and  rising  abruptly, 
looked  at  his  watch. 

**  It  is  nine  o'clock;  and  I  had  promised 
to  call  on  poor  little  Adele  at  eight !  '' 

The  man  seemed  suddenly  transformed. 
The  political  enthusiast,  the  eloquent 
speaker  had  disappeared.  Before  me  stood, 
with  the  same  insipid  smile  on  his  lips,  the 
"  swell "  whose  appearance  had  so  often 
repulsed  me. 

*'Do  you  know  Adele?"  he  continued. 
*'  A  charming  little  girl.  I  will  introduce 
you  one  of  these  days.  Now,  good-by, 
my  friend  !  I  hope  to  find  in  you  soon 
a  worthy  pupil  of  Dr.  Dillmann,"  he  added 
in  an  earnest  undertone. 

*'  Dillmann  !  "  I  repeated,  transfixed  with 


WHO  WAS  HE?  201 

amazement.  '^  What  do  you  know  about 
him?" 

But  Somoff  had  already  left  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

I  was  utterly  bewildered.  Dr.  Dillmann 
was  one  of  the  ablest  leaders  of  the  German 
democracy,  whom  I  had  frequently  met 
in  Heidelberg,  and  who  had  exercised  a 
powerful  influence  on  my  political  opinions. 
How  could  Somofif,  who,  as  he  said,  had 
never  left  Russia,  know  about  my  relations 
with  that  man? 

The  next  morning  when  I  met  Somoff 
in  the  lecture-room,  this  was  naturally  the 
first  question  I  asked  him.  He  did  not, 
however,  answer  directly.  On  my  pressing 
him  with  questions  he  at  length  said,  — 

"  There  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  this ; 
we  have  had  our  eyes  on  you  a  long  time." 

Saying  which,  he  left  me  abruptly  and 
disappeared  in  the  throng  of  students 
which  just  then  crowded  the  entrance- 
door.  This  one  word  "  we "  threw  me 
into  the  profoundest  and  most  joyful 
excitement. 


202  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

The  melancholy  solitude  in  which  I  had 
hitherto  lived  weighed  heavily  on  my  mind, 
the  more  so  as  I  knew  of  the  existence  of 
some  secret  association,  the  members  of 
which  pursued  the  same  social  and  political 
purposes  as  those  to  which  I  was  devoted. 
Was  I  at  last  to  come  into  contact  with 
one  of  these  associations? 

A  prey  to  a  feverish  agitation,  I  ran  the 
same  evening  to  Somoff's  room.  I  found 
him  at  home,  but  succeeded  in  learning 
but  little  from  him.  He  seemed  absent 
and  worn  out,  spoke  of  two  sleepless 
nights  he  had  passed,  and  at  last  put  me 
unceremoniously  out,  saying  that  he  ex- 
pected a  visit  from  a  man  who  preferred 
not  to  be  seen.  At  the  same  time  he 
dropped  a  few  hints  showing  his  knowl- 
edge of  some  facts  of  my  past  life  w^hich 
I  had  hitherto  considered  unknown  to  all 
except  myself. 

Weeks  of  morbid,  feverish  excitement 
followed,  during  which  Somoff  held  me  as 
in  a  dream  of  mystery,  intrigue,  and  bewil- 
derment.    I  met  him  daily,  and  countless 


WHO  WAS  HE?  203 

trifles  showed  me  that  my  every  step  was 
watched  and  reported  to  him.  I  felt  my- 
self in  the  hands  of  some  unknown,  invis- 
ible power;  but  to  all  my  questions  as  to 
the  nature  of  that  power  Somoff  answered 
invariably,  — 

''  Patience,  my  friend !  You  are  not 
ripe  yet.'* 

At  length  (our  acquaintance  was  already 
three  months  old)  he  seemed  to  yield  to 
my  entreaties.  One  night  as  we  were 
closeted  together  in  a  cabinet  particulier  at 
Dusaux's  (one  of  the  fashionable  restaur- 
ants of  St.  Petersburg),  my  mysterious 
friend    suddenly  exclaimed,  — 

'*  So  you  want  to  be  one  of  us?  ** 

"  First  tell  me  at  length  who  you  are,'* 
I  replied. 

Somoff  looked  at  me  fixedly  with  his 
sad,  lustreless  eyes.  His  whole  face  took 
an  expression  of  weariness  and  old  age  I 
had  never  before  witnessed,  and  his  voice 
had  a  peculiarly  hollow  sound  in  it  as  he 
spoke  to  me. 

'^  Child,  child,'*  he  said,  "  I  fear  you  know 


204  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

not  what  you  ask  or  what  you  wish  !  We 
are  outcasts ;  we  are  men  who  have  abjured 
every  personal  aim,  affection,  or  passion  in 
Hfe ;  we  have  given  up  our  whole  being  to 
the  service  of  one  idea,  and  have  severed 
all  human  ties  that  make  life  worth  living 
to  the  rest  of  mankind.  Not  only  our  life 
(that  would  be  nothing),  but  our  honor, 
our  pride,  the  desire  to  love  and  to  be  loved, 
—  all  that  is  killed  in  us,  and  must  be  sacri- 
ficed at  any  time  if  our  holy  cause  requires 
it.  You  have  been  educated  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  German  democracy ;  do  not  expect 
to  find  here  anything  approaching  the  com- 
fortable and  so  to  say  *  home-made'  concern 
of  what  the  people  there  call  *  revolution.' 
Here  we  live  in  the  realm  of  darkness,  and 
have  to  work  in  the  dark.  Not  even  the 
prestige  of  becoming  celebrated  is  awarded 
us.  Restless,  hopeless,  all-absorbing  is  our 
work;  we  have  renounced  all  the  joys  of 
hfe ;  we  are  "  —  he  stopped,  and  seemed 
to  seek  for  an  adequate  expression  —  ''we 
are  the  monks  of  the  Russian  revolution ! 
Wilt  thou  become  such  a  monk?" 


WHO  WAS  HE?  205 

Bewildered,  almost  frightened  by  this 
sudden  outburst  of  gloomy  passion,  I 
answered  in  a  low  voice, — 

**  First  tell  me  more  about  the  purpose 
and  strength  of  your   society." 

*^  The  purpose?"  he  rejoined.  '^You 
know  well  enough, —  it  is  the  struggle  with 
and  ultimate  overthrow  of  czardom,  and  a 
reorganization  of  all  the  economical  and 
political  institutions  of  our  country.  Our 
strength?  Well,  have  you  not  had  during 
the  past  few  months  countless  proofs  of 
our  power?  Have  I  not  shown  you  that 
we  have  devoted  servants  and  agents 
everywhere?  More  I  cannot  tell  you. 
If  you  wish  to  work  with  us  you  must 
believe  and  obey  me  and  only  me  — 
blindly;  you  must  do  always  and  only 
whatever  I  order  you  to  do.  For  years, 
perhaps  forever,  I  shall  be  the  sole  con- 
necting link  between  you  and  the  power, 
the  true  representatives  of  which  will  re- 
main concealed  from  you.  Do  you  con- 
sent to  these  conditions?" 

I  was  then  so  entirely  under  the  influence 


206  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

of  this  strange  man  that  I  would  joyfully 
have  consented  to  almost  anything  he  could 
have  proposed  to  me. 

That  night  a  strange  life  began  for  me. 
I  was  obliged  to  leave  off  nearly  all  my 
studies,  for  my  time  was  engrossed  by 
occupations  the  precise  nature  of  which 
I  was  unable  to  understand.  Somoff  kept 
me  constantly  on  the  move.  Obeying  his 
order,  I  began  to  lead  a  busy,  almost  dissi- 
pated society  life ;  and  before  going  to  a 
ball  or  to  a  soiree  I  invariably  received 
my  instructions  as  to  whom  I  was  to 
speak  and  what  I  had  to  find  out  and 
report. 

At  intervals  a  horrible  idea  sti'uck 
me. 

'*  In  fact,  what  I  am  doing,"  I  thought, 
*'  is  the  work  of  a  spy.  What  if  all  this  is 
but  a  ghastly,  horrible  mummery?  What 
if  Somoff  is  the  agent  not  of  a  secret 
political  association,  but  of  some  other 
secret  power,  —  perhaps  of  the  terrible 
Third  Section  of  the  secret  police  it- 
self? " 


WHO  WAS  HE?  207 

I  repelled  this  frightful  suspicion,  as 
unworthy  of  a  man  like  Somoff;  but  still 
it  haunted  me  sometimes,  putting  still 
more  uneasiness  and  excitement  into  my 
mind. 

Once  Somoff  came  to  me  in  the  early 
morning,  before  daylight,  and  awakening 
me  from  a  deep  slumber,, gave  me  a  sealed 
package,  saying,  — 

''  Keep  this,  it  is  a  document  of  the  ut- 
most importance.  You  are  as  yet  unsus- 
pected by  the  police,  so  it  is  safe  in  your 
hands.  But  do  not  deliver  it  to  any  one 
under  any  pretext  whatever.  Good-by; 
I  am  in  a  hurry." 

A  moment  later  he  had  disappeared, 
leaving  a  large  sealed  envelope  on  my 
bed.  I  got  up,  lighted  a  candle,  and  ex- 
amined carefully  the  package  intrusted  to 
my  care.  It  was  a  large  quarto  envelope, 
sealed  with  a  plain  seal  and  bearing  no 
address.  On  examining  it  more  closely, 
however,  I  remarked  that  the  outer  en- 
velope inclosed  another,  and  that  the 
latter   bore    a   direction.      Looking    about 


208  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

me  anxiously,  as  if  fearing  that  the  very 
walls  might  see  and  betray  me,  I  held 
the  package  as  near  as  possible  to  the 
light,  and  tried  to  decipher  the  inscrip- 
tion I  had  discovered  on  the  second 
envelope. 

As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget 
the  unspeakable  horror  which  overcame 
me  as  one  letter  after  another  of  this  fatal 
address  struck  my  eye.     I  read,  — 

To  HIS  Excellency 

Victor  Vassilievitch  Schultz, 

Secretary  of  the  Third  Section  of  His  Imperial  Majesty* s 
Private  Cha7icery. 

With  trembling  hands,  drops  of  cold 
sweat  falling  from  my  brow,  I  tore  open 
the  envelope  and  began  reading  the  in- 
closed manuscript  with  feverish  haste.  It 
contained,  in  Somoff's  handwriting,  a 
monthly  report  of  the  actions  and  mode 
of  life  of  a  number  of  persons  for  which 
I  —  I  myself — had  furnished  the  mate- 
rial ! 

Why  I  did  not  go  mad  in  that  horrible 


WHO  WAS  HE?  209 

moment  I  do  not  know.  Mechanically  I 
threw  some  clothes  on  and  rushed  into 
the  street.  It  was  a  bitter  cold  morning, 
and  I  ran  out  in  a  light  coat  and  without  a 
hat;  but  I  felt  not  the  cold.  I  rushed  at 
a  breathless  pace  to  where  Somoff  lived. 
I  found  his  door  locked.  With  a  super- 
human effort  I  broke  it  open  and  entered. 
Somoff,  who  had  been  writing  at  his  table, 
rose  at  the  noise  I  made,  and  stood  now 
facing  me. 

'*  What  is  the  matter?''  he  asked  in  his 
cold,  sarcastic  tone. 

**  Scoundrel !  "  I  gasped,  throwing  the 
envelope  into  his   face. 

He  quickly  picked  it  up,  and  seeing  that 
I  had  opened  it,  said  with  unutterable  sad- 
ness in  his  voice,  — 

''  So  you  have  not  borne  the  test !  " 

*^  Scoundrel !  "  I  repeated,  seizing  him 
by  the  throat.  But  at  the  same  time  I 
felt  my  senses  fail  me,  and  fell  back 
unconscious. 

When  I  recovered,  I  found  myself  ly- 
ing on    Somoff's    bed,    he  looking  at  me 

14 


2IO  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

with  an  expression  of  longing  melan- 
choly in  his  eyes  which  went  straight  to 
my  heart. 

**  Get  up  !  "  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and 
with  difficulty.  *'  You  must  hate  me. 
You  are  right;  I  have  deceived  you.  Go, 
leave  me !  " 

I  obeyed,  and  without  saying  a  word 
opened  the  door.  Suddenly  Somoff  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  of  heartrending  an- 
guish,— 

''  oh,  trust  in  me !  Cannot  you  trust 
in  me?  " 

Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he 
added,  — 

**  No,  I  forgot.  Go  ;  leave  me  !  I  have 
deceived  you ;  there  is  no  such  association 
as  the  one  I  spoke  to  you  about.  I  am 
a  spy,  a  wretched,  despicable  creature. 
Farewell !  " 

I  closed  the  door,  and  that  was  the  last 
time  I  ever  saw  Michael  Somoff. 

AH  these  events,  however,  had  seriously 
injured  my  health.  A  violent  brain-fever 
attacked  me,  during  which  I  lay  for  more 


WHO  IVAS  HE  ?  211 

than  two  weeks  unconscious.  Sometimes 
as  in  a  dream  it  seemed  to  me  that 
amidst  the  troubled,  fantastic  shapes  the 
demon  Fever  conjured  up  in  my  brain 
there  appeared  the  sad,  pensive  face  of 
Michael  Somoff.  .  But  this  was  doubt- 
less an  illusion ;  for  when  on  recover- 
ing I  asked  the  Sister  of  Charity  I  found 
sitting  at  my  bedside  if  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Somoff  had  come  to  see  me, 
she  answered  no,  but  that  the  Count  Ivan 
Troubetzkoi  had  been  a  constant  visitor, 
and  that  he  had  engaged  her,  the  Sister, 
for  me. 

How  strange !  I  thought.  The  Count 
was  a  somewhat  eccentric  personage, 
immensely  rich,  but  leading  a  secluded 
life  in  his  great  palace  of  the  Fon- 
tanka.  I  had  met  him  several  times  in 
society  and  been  introduced  to  him ;  but 
nothing  in  our  intercourse  warranted  the 
interest  he  seemed  now  to  take  in  me. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  the 
Count  called  on  me,  and  cutting  short  the 
expression  of  gratitude    I    was    about    to 


212  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

utter,  exclaimed,  shaking  me  heartily  by 
the  hand, — 

*^  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  doing  so 
well,  and  was  very  happy  to  have  been 
able  to  render  you  a  little  service.  Do 
not  forget  that  your  father  and  I  were 
friends/' 

The  Count  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
nearly  bald,  and  looked  at  least  double 
my  age.  And  yet  as  he  sat  before  me 
with  the  light  falling  full  into  his  face, 
a  strange  resemblance  struck  me,  —  the 
eyes,  those  gray,  lustreless,  lifeless  eyes, 
were  Somofifs;  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  it.  The  more  I  looked  at  them,  the 
more  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  of  the 
madness  of  my  supposition,  the  more  1 
felt  convinced  that  those  eyes  could  be- 
long but  to  one  man,  and  that  that  man 
was  Somoff. 

The  Count  noticed  my  confusion,  and 
rising,  said,  ''  You  seem  to  be  a  little  tired 
now ;   I  will  go." 

He  gave  me  his  hand ;  then  stopping  at 
the  door,  he  turned  round  once  more,  and 


WHO  WAS  HE?  213 

I  heard  him  —  no,  not  him,  not  the  Count, 
I  heard  the  voice,  the  actual  voice  of 
Michael  SomofT,  say,  — 

"  Live  on  happy,  my  child,  and  keep 
aloof  from   our  gloomy  work." 

I  would  have  leaped  out  of  bed  if  the 
Sister  of  Charity  had  not  held  me  back  by 
main  force. 

**  Who  is  that  man?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Be  quiet,  sir,"  she  replied ;  *'  it  is  the 
Count  Ivan  Petruvitch  Troubetzkoi,  your 
excellent  friend." 

After  my  recovery  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  St.  Petersburg  abruptly.  A  razzia  on 
all  ''  suspected "  persons  had  taken  place, 
and  among  others  I  was  informed  that  I 
had  to  leave  the  capital  in  twenty-four 
hours. 

Thus  began  my  life  of  homeless  wan- 
dering, which  has  lasted  ever  since.  Of 
Somoff  I  heard  nothing,  till  about  a  year 
ago  a  Russian  friend  in  New  York  showed 
me  a  copy  of  one  of  the  clandestine  Rus- 
sian publications,  in  which  the  public  was 
warned  against  a  certain  Michael  Somoff, 


214  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

suspected  of  being  a  secret  agent  of  the 
police.  The  same  number  brought  the 
report  that  Count  Ivan  Troubetzkoi  had 
been  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being  con- 
cerned in  some  conspiracy,  and  had  been 
released  the  same  day.  All  this  did  not  in 
any  way  tend  to  solve  the  mystery  which 
surrounded  these  two  men. 

Some  ten  days  ago  I  received  a  letter 
bearing  the  stamp  of  Post-Office  Station  D 
in  New  York  City.  On  opening  it  I  read 
the  following  words :  — 

Farewell,  friend  !  I  have  sacrificed  and  des- 
troyed all  that  is  human  in  me.  For  the  sake  of 
our  cause  I  have  borne  with  contempt  and  slan- 
der ;  I  have  lost  your  friendship.  Now  human 
nature  takes  back  its  right,  its  last  right,  —  that 
of  self-destruction.  I  have  accomplished  the  work. 
I  want  rest,  eternal  rest.     Farewell ! 

Michael  Somoff. 

What  did  this  letter  mean?  All  re- 
searches were  vain.  Had  the  unfortunate 
man  indeed  found  the  repose  he  longed  for 
in  the  deep  waters  of  the  Hudson,  or  was  this 


WHO  WAS  HE?  215 

letter  but  a  stratagem  on  the  part  of  this 
extraordinary  being? 

I  know  not ;  neither  do  I  attempt,  as  I 
have  said  before,  to  unravel  this  riddle.  It 
stands  before  me  dark  as  the  Sphinx,  and 
time  alone  will  solve  it,  if  it  ever  be  solved. 


THE   ELF   OF    HOHENHEIM. 


THE    ELF   OF   HOHENHEIM. 

N  descending  the  Volga  years  and 
years  ago  on  a  radiant  moonlight 
night  in  midsummer,  I  entered  into 
conversation  with  an  old  Russian  sectarian 
patriarch  whom  I  met  on  board  the  boat, 
and  with  whom  —  as  always  happens  when 
I  meet  one  of  these  extraordinary  men  — 
I  was  soon  deeply  engaged  in  a  theological 
discussion. 

**  Can  you  tell  me,  Father  Onufry,"  I 
asked  in  the  course  of  the  conversation, 
'^  on  what,  besides  the  Scriptures,  you  base 
your  faith  in  an  eternal  life  of  bliss  beyond 
the  grave?  " 

The  old  man  raised  his  white  head  from 
his  bosom,  and  extending  his  hand  towards 


220  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

the  endless  steppes  which  border  the  river, 
said  in  a  solemn  voice,  — 

"  On  the  immensity  of  human  misery  on 
earth ! '' 

Through  time  and  space  this  answer 
rings  in  my  ears  in  all  its  unutterable  sad- 
ness as  the  last  and  highest  expression  of 
the  whole  martyr-nation's  misery ;  and  the 
longer  I  live,  the  deeper  and  fuller  becomes 
the  stream  of  humanity  running  past  me 
on  the  broad  and  rugged  causeway  of  life, 
the  more  I  learn  to  fathom  the  depth  of 
those  simple  words,  — 

**  On  the  immensity  of  human  misery 
on  earth !  " 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  night  in  the 
Bowery,  when  I  was  returning  on  foot  at  a 
slow  pace  from  my  office,  intent  upon  the 
picture  of  busy  life  and  confusion  which 
surrounded  me,  and  which  for  years  had 
never  been  so  noisy  and  bustling  as  then. 
The  *'good  times"  had  set  in;  and  like  a 
huge  monster  stretching  out  his  limbs  after 
years    of  prostration,   the    great    city  was 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM,  221 

sending  out  of  all  its  thoroughfares  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  its  population,  bent 
on  enjoying  life,  on  putting  to  immediate 
profit  the  gains  of  the  day  while  the  rising 
tide  should  last,  and  before  the  ebb  should 
set  in  again.  Though  the  hour  was  late, 
the  stores  were  ablaze  with  light  and 
thronged  with  customers.  On  the  side- 
walk the  bustle  was  so  great  that  I  had 
some  pains  in  pushing  my  way  along: 
women,  bending  under  the  load  of  baskets 
and  parcels,  chatted,  laughed,  and  screamed 
as  they  went ;  parties  of  men,  strolling  with 
pipes  and  cigars  in  their  mouths,  were 
enjoying  the  clear,  mild  night  after  a  hard 
week's  work ;  pairs  of  ''  our  boys,"  swagger- 
ing along  with  all  the  imperturbable  and 
inimitable  impertinence  pecuhar  to  the 
promising  offshoots  of  Young  America, 
blocked  up  occasionally  the  whole  side- 
walk, spitting  and  brawling  in  the  most 
accomplished  fashion,  and  occasionally  in- 
terchanging some  choice  epithet  of  endear- 
ment or  ridicule  with  parties  of  ''girls,'' 
who,  as  to  the  noise -they  made,  were  in  no 


222  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

way  inferior  to  the  stronger  sex.  Italian 
peanut-venders,  with  their  dark  Southern 
faces  lighted  by  the  flaring  torches  sur- 
rounding their  stands,  advertised  their 
goods  in  a  shrill  mixture  of  Italian  and 
Irish-American ;  pedlers  babbled  out  their 
endless  stories,  collecting  groups  of  the 
ubiquitous  loafer  around  them.  In  the 
midst  of  all  this  turmoil  the  discordant 
sounds  of  a  street-organ  performing  the 
"  Wacht  am  Rhein"  pierced  through  the 
other  sounds,  and  an  old  bald-headed 
Frenchman,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
bawled  out  the  ''  Marseillaise  "  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

Slowly  I  advanced  amid  all  this  bustle, 
admiring  and  in  some  measure  fascinated 
by  this  picture,  so  full  of  a  coarse  but  in- 
tense and  robust  life,  and  on  which  the 
lights  in  the  store-windows,  the  petroleum 
torches  of  the  street-venders,  the  stained, 
multi-colored  gas-lamps  of  the  dime  mu- 
seum and  other  places  of  equivocal  and 
unequivocal  amusement,  shed  a  lurid,  al- 
most fantastic   glare.     All   of  a  sudden  I 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM.         223 

stopped  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  What 
was  this  before  me?  A  ghost;  a  horrible 
freak  of  my  imagination,  —  or  what? 

That  ashy  pale  face,  that  stooping  figure, 
creeping  along  with  difficulty  and  thrown 
from  side  to  side  by  the  busy  crowd  like 
a  broken  reed,  —  where  had  I  seen  a  sem- 
blance of  them  before? 

This  ghastly  figure  was  that  of  a  woman. 
By  the  hand  she  led  a  child,  a  baby  of 
some  three  years  of  age,  who  seemed  so 
exhausted  that  its  legs  refused  service 
entirely.  It  did  not  even  scream,  but  let 
itself  be  dragged  along  by  the  woman  like 
a  lifeless  corpse.  I  turned  round  and  fol- 
lowed this  wretched  pair.  I  soon  found 
out  that  the  woman's  walk  was  not  pur- 
poseless. She  staggered  from  one  ash- 
barrel  to  another ;  at  each  of  these  orna- 
ments of  our  metropolitan  thoroughfares 
she  stooped  down,  plunged  her  bare  arm 
into  the  heap  of  refuse,  and  kept  it  there, 
searching  till  she  had  found  some  remnant 
of  something  which  might  one  day  have 
served  as  food  for  man  or  beast.     This  she 


224  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

clutched  at  with  eager  grasp ;  the  best  bits 
she  gave  to  the  child,  the  rest  she  devoured 
herself. 

And  in  the  mean  time  the  busy,  roaring 
wave  of  humanity  rolled  past  her  as  coldly 
and  indifferently  as  if  it  were  indeed  a  bil- 
low of  the  ocean,  and  not  a  living  throng 
of  men,  of  whom  thousands  would  the  very 
next  morning  worship  in  proud,  self-com- 
placency the  Christian  God,  —  the  God  of 
mercy,  charity,  and  love ! 

Stepping  to  her  side,  I  touched  the  wo- 
man's shoulder.     She  looked  around  with 
a  wild  and  scared  expression  as  the  light  of 
a  torch  fell  full  on  her  face.     ''  Good  God  ! 
is  it  possible?  "  I  screamed,  ''  Emily !  " 

Her  whole  frame  shook  under  the 
rags  which  half  covered  it;  she  drew  back 
from  me,  and  with  a  groan  of  irrepressible 
terror  attempted  to  run  away.  I  held  her 
fast,  however. 

*'Come,  now,"  I  said,  ''whoever  you  may 
be.  Think  of  your  child,  —  it  seems  to  be 
dying;  let  me  give  it  something  to  eat." 
She   bowed  her  head   in  silent  obedience 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM.  22$ 

and  suffered  me  to  lead  her  to  a  small  hotel 
in  the  neighborhood  kept  by  an  honest  old 
German  on  whose  discretion  I  could  reckon. 
I  engaged  a  room,  ordered  a  supper  and  a 
bottle  of  strong  wine,  and  bidding  the  wo- 
man wash  and  undress  herself  and  the 
child,  I  went  out  to  purchase  in  one  of  the 
Bowery  stores  a  cheap  but  decent  outfit 
for  both,  which  on  returning  to  the  hotel 
I  sent  up  to  her  by  the  chambermaid. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  supper  was 
brought.  I  knocked  at  her  door,  a  feeble 
voice  answered,  '*  Come  in,"  and  on  enter- 
ing I  remained  two  or  three  seconds  stand- 
ing motionless,  speechless,  at  the  door, 
staring  at  the  apparition  before  me.  The 
hasty  toilet  she  had  made  had  wrought 
an  extraordinary  change  in  all  the  young 
woman's  appearance.  She  sat  before  me 
with  the  child  in  her  lap  in  all  her  won- 
drous, delicate,  bewitching  beauty,  the  ''elf 
of  Hohenheim,"  as  we  used  to  call  her;  but 
no  longer  the  wild,  wayward,  elf-Hke  child, 
but  such  as  I  had  seen  her  in  my  boyish 
dreams,  —  a  beautiful,  fairy-like  woman  ! 

15 


226  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

"  Emily  Rechberg/'  I  whispered  when 
the  chambermaid  had  left  us,  *^  do  you 
know  me?  " 

She  looked  up  at  me,  and  dropping  her 
head  into  both  her  hands,  broke  into  a  tor- 
rent of  tears.  After  soothing  and  quieting 
her  as  best  I  could,  I  insisted  on  her 
and  the  child  eating  the  supper  I  had  or- 
dered before  entering  on  any  explanations. 
After  the  last  morsel  had  disappeared,  and 
the  child,  which  had  already  fallen  asleep 
while  eating,  had  been  put  to  bed,  Emily 
sat  down  by  my  side,  and  with  many  a 
sigh  and  many  a  tear  told  me  her  story. 
It  was  the  sad,  old,  old  story. 

I  was  barely  seventeen,  and  had  just 
entered  the  celebrated  Academy  of  Agri- 
culture at  Hohenheim,  near  Stuttgart, 
Wiirtemberg,  when  I  first  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Emily  and  of  her  uncle,  the 
famous  mathematician.  Dr.  Aloysius  Rech- 
berg,  with  whom,  having  lost  her  par- 
ents, she  then  lived.  The  old  professor's 
house  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  all  us  boys. 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM,  22/ 

Himself  childless,  but  yet  full  of  energy 
and  animal  spirits,  the  old  man  liked  to 
be  surrounded  by  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
youth.  On  some  evenings  of  the  week, 
and  indeed  not  unfrequently  during  whole 
days,  the  professor's  house  looked  more 
like  a  student's  kneipe  (tavern)  than  the 
abode  of  one  of  the  first  scientific  author- 
ities of  Germany.  In  the  snug  parlor  on 
the  first-floor  of  the  lovely  cottage  Recli- 
berg  occupied  stood  a  large  oak-table, 
surrounded  with  old-fashioned  carved- 
wood  chairs.  Many  a  joyous,  never-to- 
be-forgotten  night  of  mirth  and  delightful 
entertainment  have  we  passed  there,  — 
youth  and  happiness  in  our  hearts,  the 
foaming  beer-glass  before  us,  and  the 
professor's  hearty  voice  and  laugh  cheer- 
ing us  to  new  mirth,  and  giving  us  the 
example  of  youth  and  joy. 

Little  Emily,  ''  elf  of  Hohenheim,"  as  we 
had  nicknamed  her,  never  failed  at  these 
queer  assemblies.  Indeed  she  was  the 
genius,  the  spirit  of  our  band ;  and  a  mad, 
uncontrollable   spirit    it  was,   to    be   sure ! 


228  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

Scarcely  fifteen  years  of  age,  she  was 
already  as  far  advanced  in  her  studies 
with  her  uncle  as  any  of  us. 

''  I  don't  want  to  make  of  the  girl  one 
of  your  insipid  hot-house  flowers,  which 
droop  and  shudder  at  everything/'  the 
old  man  used  to  say  to  us.  '^  Let  her 
see,  study,  and  enjoy  life  just  as  it  is. 
You  are  all  of  you  a  set  of  honest,  though 
excessively  lazy  lads,  at  whose  hands  she 
has  no  harm  to  fear.  So  let  her  enjoy  her 
freedom,  —  the  only  thing  she  possesses, 
poor  thing!  I  trust  her  to  you;  do  not 
deceive  me,  lads." 

And  Emily  was  indeed  our  friend,  our 
comrade,  —  almost  our  sister.  She  felt  so 
secure  inside  the  domain  of  her  adopted 
brothers  that  she  w^andered  in  summer 
and  winter  all  alone  through  the  exten- 
sive woods  of  Hohenheim,  considering 
them,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  paradise  on 
earth,  in  which  no  fatal  tree  or  wily  ser- 
pent could  ever  tempt  her.  Elf-like,  she 
haunted  the  grounds  around  our  academy, 
climbing  in  the  trees,  imitating  the  singing 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM.  229 

of  the  birds  around  her,  making  the  air  re- 
sound with  her  clear,  silvery  laugh,  shed- 
ding on  all  things  the  fairy  light  of  her 
dear,  innocent  presence.  Such  she  had 
lived  on  in  my  remembrance  these  many 
years  since  our  parting.  Such,  as  the 
long-lost  dream  of  youth  and  light,  she  ap- 
peared at  times  to  me  amid  the  dark  shad- 
ows and  bitter  realities  of  life.  Who  was 
the  villain  that  had  darkened  and  polluted 
this  bright  vision  of  light?  Who  had  made 
this  of  my  little  ''elf  of  Hohenheim?  " 

His  name  was,  she  told  me,  —  or  at  least 
was  supposed  to  be,  —  Count  Ladislas 
Brodzinsky,  and  he  pretended  to  be  a  Po- 
lish nobleman  of  immense  wealth.  Like 
the  rest  of  the  students,  he  too  had  been 
received  with  the  usual  free  hospitality  at 
the  professor's  house,  but  had  soon  by  his 
manner  excited  the  old  man's  suspicions. 
He  was  forbidden  the  house ;  but  the  mis- 
chief was  already  done,  —  Emily  was  madly 
in  love  with  him.  Interviews  went  on  be- 
tween them  clandestinely;  the  wretch  be- 
witched her  more  and  more,  until  at  length 


230  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

she  consented  to  elope  with  him  to  America, 
whither,  he  said,  important  business  matters 
called  him.  The  pair  fled  first  to  Paris, 
thence  to  London,  where  they  stayed  nearly 
a  week.  While  in  that  city  Brodzinsky 
came  home  one  day  seemingly  a  prey  to 
terrible  agitation. 

*'  Somebody  is  on  our  track,  my  dearest 
Emily  1"  he  exclaimed.  ''I  have  been 
followed  the  whole  day.  We  cannot  start 
from  here  together.  You  must  go  to-night 
direct  to  Queenstown,  and  wait  a  day  there 
for  the  boat  which  shall  bring  me  from 
Liverpool.  The  people  who  are  tracking 
me  must  see  me  get  on  board  alone.  Do 
you  trust  me,  my  love?  " 

Of  course  she  did,  and  obeyed  him 
guilelessly,  confidingly.  Long  before  the 
steamer  had  been  sighted  she  was  standing 
on  the  Queenstown  dock,  waiting,  straining 
her  eyes  for  the  streak  of  smoke  on  the 
horizon.  At  length  it  came.  The  tug- 
boat took  the  Queenstown  passengers  on 
board  the  huge  ocean  steamer.  Emily 
found  her  cabin  reserved  for  her,  but  no 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM,         23 1 

Ladislas  Brodzinsky  to  meet  her.  Trem- 
bling, bewildered,  she  inquired  if  there  was 
a  passenger  of  that  name  on  board.  The 
steward  who  had  accompanied  her  to  the 
cabin  thought  there  was,  and  promised  to 
inquire  immediately. 

He  went,  and  Emily  remained  in  her 
cabin  trembling,  fearing  she  knew  not  what, 
feeling  as  if  each  minute  that  passed  be- 
came a  century  of  suspense.  In  the  mean 
time  the  steamer  had  heaved  her  anchor, 
the  screw  had  been  put  in  motion,  and  the 
ocean  monster  glided  majestically  into  the 
open  sea. 

At  length  the  steward  returned  with  the 
answer:  ''No,  miss,  there  is  no  gentleman 
of  that  name  on  board  ! '' 

On  hearing  these  words  Emily  remained 
for  some  time  like  one  paralyzed  by  terror 
and  despair.  Then  realizing  all  of  a  sud- 
den the  horror  of  her  situation,  she  rushed 
out  of  the  cabin  with  a  piercing  cry  and 
ran  on  deck,  whence,  had  not  the  captain 
met  her  and  held  her  fast,  she  would  have 
jumped  into  the  sea. 


232  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS. 

She  then  began  beseeching  the  captain 
in  a  frantic  way  to  turn  back,  to  put  her 
on  shore  anywhere;  the  poor  man  had  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  to  explain  to  her  the 
impossibility  of  her  demand,  and  to  quiet 
her  so  far  as  to  lead  her  back  into  the 
cabin.  She  need  but  wait  patiently,  he 
said ;  in  New  York  she  would  be  sure  to 
find  a  telegram  explaining  all. 

She  waited,  but  in  vain ;  no  message,  no 
friendly  word  bade  her  welcome  to  the 
New  World.  The  captain  and  some  of  the 
passengers  took  an  interest  in  the  poor 
girl,  and  accompanied  her  to  the  German 
consulate.  There  she  gave  her  uncle's 
address,  and  the  consul  promised  her  to 
cable  to  him  immediately.  The  next  day 
she  was  to  learn  the  answer.  She  came 
the  next  day.  The  consul  led  her  to  his 
private  office,  and  with  a  grave  face  invited 
her  to  take  a  seat. 

*'  Have  you  other  relatives  in  Germany, 
Miss  Rechberg,  besides  your  uncle?"  he 
inquired. 

'*  None,"  she  answered. 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM.  .       233 

*'  I  regret  it,"  rejoined  the  consul,  ''  for 
your  uncle  is  dead.  Here  is  the  answer  I 
received  this  morning."  And  he  showed 
her  the  fatal  message. 

Emily  had  suffered  so  much  during  the 
passage  that  this  new  blow  could  scarcely 
hurt,  but  only  stun  her.  She  sat  there 
motionless,  staring  at  the  paper  before  her 
with  a  vacant  gaze. 

*'  Do  you  wish,  under  the  circumstances," 
continued  the  German  official,  ''  to  return 
to  Europe?  I  could  facilitate  your  ar- 
rangements if  such  should  be  your  wish." 

'*  What  for?"  she  asked  dejectedly. 

**  Just  as  you  please,"  answered  the  con- 
sul. She  rose  from  her  seat,  thanked  him 
mechanically,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

''  Oh  !  do  not  ask  me,"  exclaimed  Emily, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  ''  to  tell 
you  all  that  befell  me  here.  It  is  a  tale  of 
shame  and  misery  I  will  spare  you  and  my- 
self. Four  months  after  my  landing,  this 
child  —  his  child  —  w^as  born.  Some  time 
later  I  received  a  letter  from  him  off"ering 
me   money,   and  explaining  his  treachery 


234  MISFITS  AND  REMNANTS, 

with  perfect  frankness.  My  love,  he  said, 
had  become  troublesome  to  him,  for  just 
then  the  possibility  of  a  rich  marriage 
with  a  woman  older  than  himself  and  ex- 
ceedingly jealous  had  presented  itself  to 
him,  and  thus  he  resolved  to  put  me  out 
of  the  way.  How  well  he  knew  me ! 
In  writing  this  letter  he  placed  a  deadly 
weapon  in  my  hand  :  he  knew  well  enough 
I  should  not  use  it." 

The  night  was  far  advanced  when  Emily 
had  told  me  her  sad  story  to  the  end.  I 
took  leave  of  her,  promising  to  come  back 
the  next  morning,  and  not  to  forsake  her 
till  a  suitable  position  had  presented  itself 
for  her. 

I  came,  and  returned  the  next  day  and 
the  next,  and  so  on  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
until,  little  by  little,  the  intercourse  with 
Emily  became  the  most  engrossing  occu- 
pation of  my  day. 

She  became  daily  more  beautiful,  and 
daily  I  saw  revived  before  me  the  fair 
image  of  the  ''elf  of  Hohenheim"  of  my 
boyish  dreams,  turned  to  a  still  more  be- 
witching reality. 


THE  ELF  OF  HOHENHEIM.         235 

One  day,  as  I  entered  as  usual  the  little 
German  hotel,  the  fat  host  came  to  meet 
me  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

**  For  you,"  he  said  laconically. 

I  tore  open  the  envelope.  It  was  from 
Emily,  and  contained  the  following  lines : 

My  dearest,  my  only  Friend,  —  I  leave  you 
who  have  saved  me,  whom  I  have  learned  to 
love  more  than  my  life ;  and  it  is  just  because  of 
my  great  love  that  I  go.  Your  life  must  remain 
as  it  is,  —  pure  and  free  and  noble.  Your  path 
must  not  be  soiled  by  a  creature  like  me.  Fare- 
well !  God  bless  you  !  May  every  tear  which 
falls  from  my  cheek  while  I  write  this  bring  you 
years  and  years  of  happiness  !  Do  not  grieve 
for  me.  I  have  found  honest  work  in  another 
city  far  away.  Do  not  search  for  me,  and  do 
not  quite  forget  your  poor,  loving 

Elf  of  Hohenheim. 

A  year  has  passed ;  I  have  never  seen 
or  heard  from  her  since. 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  .Son,  Cambridi^e. 


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